


The Prisoner

by ladymacbeth99



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: AU, Angst, Blood Brothers, Developing Friendships, Family Feels, Fantastic Racism, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Jötunn Loki, Kid Fic, Non-Graphic Violence, Taking serious liberties with Norse Mythology
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-06
Updated: 2016-01-22
Packaged: 2018-03-10 19:40:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 36,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3301190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladymacbeth99/pseuds/ladymacbeth99
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Laufey did not abandon Loki, though he was anything but a good father. When Jotunheim wages war against Asgard yet again, Odin takes the young prince back with him as a political prisoner. An unlikely friendship forms between enemies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just to clarify, Thor and Loki are nine and seven years old, respectively, in terms of development. I have no idea how that translates to Asgardian years.

Thor wasn’t very stealthy, and he knew it.

His boots thudded loudly against the stone floor, echoing in the long corridor, but he did not know how to make his footfalls lighter. Several of the guards along the corridor raised their eyebrows suspiciously at the young prince, but did not abandon their posts.

He was skipping his swordsmanship lessons today. Tyr, his teacher, would notice Thor’s absence very soon, and would probably send word to his father about his truancy, so there was no time for attempting secrecy. What the All-Father would do if he caught him here, Thor didn’t know, but undoubtedly the palace dungeons were no place for a prince to wander.

Thor was not usually one to choose a dank underground hall over fresh air and sparring with his friends, but like everyone else in Asgard, he had heard the rumors. And his curiosity burned.

_The All-Father has brought a Frost Giant back as a prisoner._

_Laufey’s own son, they say._

_Imagine one of those creatures, here!_

Indeed, Thor could not imagine it. He’d never seen a real one up close before, but he had dozens of storybooks that showed pictures of the barbaric creatures, mortal enemies to Asgard and civilization itself. They roamed the frigid wilderness of Jotunheim, on the very fringes of Yggdrasil, but whenever they ventured elsewhere, they left destruction and bloodshed in their wake. They would have entombed Midgard in ice if Father had not imprisoned their source of power centuries ago.

_They must be truly mad, to try and invade Midgard again without the Casket_ , Thor wondered, shaking his head. And yet they were attempting it now. It was further proof that they delighted in devastation, however fruitless it might be.

_When I’m king_ , he thought, eagerly reaching for his sword, _I’ll hunt the monsters down and slay them all, just like the heroes in the stories. Just like Father_.

He slashed his sword through the air, lopping the head off the imaginary giant leering before him. Except in his fantasies, he couldn’t yet go out searching for beasts to kill—he would have to content himself with catching a glimpse of a caged one.

_I’ll look it straight in its red eyes without a hint of fear_ , he thought; _I will make it dread me, the only son of its mortal enemy. Then everyone will know I am the Mighty Thor, Crown Prince of Asgard, fearless warrior…_

Or at least, he would be, as soon as he was old enough to change his wooden sword out with steel.

He walked slowly past the dungeon cells, both eager to look inside and anxious to appear unimpressed. The only light came from the flickering torches along the walls, and the dim gleam of the magic barriers walling in the prisoners. The cells were stark and bare, except for the golden sheen of magic that divided them. Each one held at least two prisoners, pacing or wandering or sleeping to pass the time.

This cell held a former guard convicted of taking bribes.

The next, a servant accused of treason, awaiting trial.

Another, a noble who had murdered his brother to obtain his title.

Thor held each of their gazes in turn with a smug smile as he sauntered past. No, he was not afraid of enemies—traitors, cowards, liars, common criminals all. But his steps slowed as he wondered about what he would see at the end of the hallway. He took a deep breath and clenched his fists around his practice sword’s wooden hilt, hearing his pulse drumming in his ears; his blue eyes gleamed with excitement.

_Let the monster show itself, if it dares! I’m not afraid of it. Just wait until Sif hears the daring tale of my confrontation with a Frost Giant…_

He rounded the corner, prepared for anything and everything when—

He saw it.

Not the nine-foot monstrosity he expected. Not a giant whose laughter could shake mountains, or whose hands could crush Æsir bones into dust. Not the roaring, violent enemy that he could gloat over.

Sitting in the center of a lonely cell was a tiny figure dressed in black, its knees drawn up to its chest. Motionless. Smaller than Thor. Its limbs seemed fragile and childlike.

Thor froze, disconcerted.

He would not have guessed at the creature’s species if he had not seen its hands, sapphire blue and engraved with strange markings. It sat in a circle of ice that formed on the ground around him; whether the creature had made it consciously or not, Thor did not know. As he watched, it raised its head and met his eyes briefly. A chill ran through the young prince at the startlingly crimson stare: if it held any emotion, it was impossible to determine.

The creature dropped its eyes and bowed buried its face in its knees again, its shoulders hunched.

Thor wanted to say, _You are not supposed to be like this._ His disappointed expectations made him almost indignant, though he wasn’t sure why. His wooden sword hung limply at his side.

Suddenly, a hand grabbed Thor’s shoulder, making him jump.

“And just what precisely are you doing here, Thor?”

Thor gulped: the voice, though quiet and calm, still managed to ring with stoic authority. He looked guiltily up into his father’s stern face.

“The dungeons are no place for a young prince,” said Odin, pulling him along the corridor by the collar. Thor struggled to keep pace with his long strides.

“H-how did you know I was here, Father?”

It was a foolish question—what with Heimdall’s watchful gaze, the king’s scrying-glass, and guards listening in nearly every room of the palace, Odin could be relied upon to know essentially everything that went on in Asgard.

The only true surprise was that his father had searched for Thor himself, when the king had so much on his mind of late. He had returned to Asgard only a few days ago from Midgard, to bring back the prisoner and gather more forces, but the siege on the mortal realm raged on in his absence.

“I thought curiosity might tempt you here,” the All-Father responded. “But there is no need to antagonize the poor creature.”

“I wasn’t baiting it!” Thor protested. “Honest! I just wanted to see it.”

“Yes, and that is why you took out your weapon,” Odin responded dryly.

Odin’s steps had slowed considerably now that Thor was following him obediently. They had reached the first level of the palace now, the corridor bathed in sunlight from the tall windows. It took Thor’s eyes a few moments to adjust.

“And did the sight meet your expectations?”

Thor looked down at his boots, biting his lip. “It’s so small. Why is it so small? I expected it to be gigantic, like the stories say,” he pouted. His face was still flushed with disappointment. “It’s even smaller than I am.”

“That is because he is even younger than you are,” Odin said. “Although his size is unusual, it is not unheard of.”

Thor laughed at the absurdity of a _little_ giant.

“Now,” said his father, suddenly brisk, “as to your punishment.”

Thor opened his mouth indignantly to argue, but Odin cut him off. His single eye scowled at him.

“You know full well that you are not allowed in the dungeons,” he said firmly. “And complacency is not befitting behavior for a warrior. You will have no sparring sessions this week. Your spare time will be spent on your studies—which, truth be told, could see some improvement anyway.”

Thor was outraged. “But Father—!”

Odin sighed wearily. “Victory must be accepted gracefully, Thor. There is no merit in reveling while your enemy lies helpless on the ground. Honor means affording dignity to a worthy adversary when they are defeated.”

“But Father,” Thor said with a snort, “the Frost Giants are not worthy opponents. They are cheaters and cowards! They would never show us any pity!”  
“Nonetheless, my son, mercy can have its own reward.”

Thor’s brow furrowed in confusion; he had never heard his father talk like this before. Where was this coming from? He had expected his father to be angry at him for playing truant, but not for this.

“I don’t understand,” he admitted baldly.

“I know, my son.”

Odin kept his hand on Thor’s shoulder as they walked, seemingly without direction. He did not speak for a moment, and Thor itched to question him further, but—try though he might to deny it—he dreaded his father most when he was quiet and impassive, because he could not guess what he was thinking.

“This prisoner,” said Odin finally, “is a son of Laufey. He may know things that could be of use.”

Thor eyed him cautiously.

“But he will not speak to me,” his father continued, “out of fear, I think. Every adult who has tried to assure him has failed. However…”

He trailed off, looking at his son shrewdly.

“He may be more inclined to speak to one his age. He might be less alarmed by another child.”

Thor frowned. “Why are you telling me this, Father?”

“Because I want you to return tomorrow and try to get the prisoner to speak to you.”

“What?”

Thor stood rooted to the spot, refusing to follow after Odin. This conversation had taken a sudden surreal turn, and he wanted an end to the word-games. First his father scolded him for going to see the Frost Giant, and now he wanted him to repeat the offense.

“You wish me to interrogate a prisoner?” Thor asked, scratching at his mop of golden hair.

“Not interrogate. I merely want you to converse with him,” Odin clarified. But his voice and his gaze turned sharp as he added, “You are not to provoke him or frighten him. That will be counter-productive. He will only speak to you if he trusts you. So if you wish to help Asgard, you will treat him with _respect_ , as the political prisoner that he is, and not as a common criminal. Is that clear?”

Thor’s head was swimming. Talk to a Frost Giant? Treat it with respect? If his father were not so deadly serious most of the time—now his face held not a glimmer of warmth—Thor would have thought this was a joke, all an absurd, elaborate joke.

“Is that clear, my son?” Odin repeated.

“Yes, Father,” he said, though his cheeks were flushed with bottled annoyance. Was his father forcing him to suffer this indignity to teach him some lesson?

“Good. Now I believe you have some studying to attend to? I shall inform Tyr that you will be absent from sparring lessons this week.”

To Thor’s dismay, he realized they had been walking towards the library, and were now at the polished double-doors. He groaned.

As Odin turned to go back the way they had come, Thor stalled him.

“Wait, Father! You have not told me what you wished to find out from the prisoner,” he said. “What should I ask it—him?”

He felt a little panicked at being left to this task so unprepared.

“Do not fret about that, Thor. Just get him talking, and report back to me whatever he says.” He put a hand on his son’s head reassuringly, hesitating before adding, “I do not think it wise to inform your mother of this task. I am not asking you to lie to her, but if she does not ask, you need not tell her.”

Thor nodded.


	2. Chapter 2

_The stench of battle loomed heavy over Midgard. The street was quiet in the aftermath, save the muffled footsteps of horses and soldiers looking for survivors. Odin pulled his cloak more tightly around his broad shoulders and glanced up at the twilit sky, fouled by smoke from the siege. Ravens were already descending on the discarded corpses._

_The All-Father had managed to recapture this Jotun-held city, but not without heavy casualties for Asgard. It was madness indeed that Jotunheim was attempting any offensive maneuvers, so soon after their last great defeat, with their own realm in shambles. Even more astounding was that they had managed to take a small region of Midgard without the aid of the Casket of Ancient Winters; perhaps it helped that natural winter lay upon this realm at the moment. He might have been impressed by Laufey’s tenacity (or desperation), were his heart not so heavy from loss._

_“We caught this one hiding in a stable, All-Father,” said one of the officers. He was dragging a small, limp figure, which was barely able to keep itself upright. “There are markings on its face that denote royal blood. Shall we kill it quickly, or—?”_

_The captive was tiny for a giant’s spawn, the size of an Æsir child—with its blue skin hidden beneath its tattered cloak, Odin could have mistaken him for one._

_“Bring him to me,” he ordered._

_The child struggled feebly against the rough hands that pushed him forward and thrust the hood of his cloak back. He whimpered softly as if in pain._

_Odin stared into the prince of Jotunheim’s face. Despite the unfamiliarity of its scarlet eyes and sapphire skin, etched with peculiar runes, he was clearly a child. His small frame trembled violently. He was gritting his teeth against the pain of his injuries, or perhaps to mask his terror—striving to appear brave._

_The gesture reminded him uncannily of Thor._

_The All-father shook himself. No, this creature was nothing like his own son—how could his mind have even leapt there?_

_“What are your orders, my king?”_

_Odin’s gaze swept over the sacked village, the broken corpses, the angry splashes of red against the snow. So much blood had been spilt today; he was weary of it. Perhaps if he could spare just one harmless creature, he could lift some of the heavy weight from his shoulders._

_“Is he injured?” Odin asked._

_The soldiers replied in the affirmative. He had taken a stray arrow to the shoulder._

_“Set him down,” said the king. The captive was hardly a threat to them. When the soldiers released their grip on the Jotun child, his knees buckled without their support. He was clearly dizzy and weak with blood loss, shivering with pain._

_Odin looked his young enemy in the eye. “Do you know who I am, child?”_

_To his surprise, the boy snorted softly. The ghost of a smirk flickered across his face._

_“Yes,” he replied. “My father took your eye when last you met in battle.”_

_Ah. A son of Laufey. How very interesting._

If my own son were captured in war, I would sacrifice much to save him _, Odin thought._ And now this gift has fallen right into my lap. The Norns have smiled upon me, it seems…

_Odin called to his officers to bind the child’s hands—wounded or not, he might still escape—and bring him along as they returned to Asgard._

* * *

  
Just as Father had commanded, Thor returned to the dungeons the next day, to see if he could get the prisoner to speak. The miniature Frost Giant was sitting in the very same position as before inside a circle of ice, immovable as a statue, knees drawn up to his chest protectively.

Thor stood fidgeting for a several minutes, debating about whether to sit or stand. His palms were sweating. What was he supposed to say? What did his father even want him to accomplish? Odin had said that he was to treat the prisoner with respect, even though Thor knew it did not deserve it—advice that the prince had been turning over in his mind all night, trying to understand. Eventually, he had concluded that his father was encouraging magnanimous behavior because that would prove Asgardians more civilized, more honorable.

So that was exactly what Thor intended to do.

It bothered Thor that the captive seemed oblivious to his presence, hadn’t even reacted to his entrance. He cleared his throat awkwardly.

The prisoner moved for the first time—still displaying no emotion, but raising his head to study the prince of Asgard.

“My father asked me to speak with you,” Thor explained finally, shrugging. “I really don’t know why. He did not tell me what he wanted to know.”

Thor wished he could decipher the prisoner’s reactions, but the blue features and eerie red eyes were so disconcerting to him that he couldn’t see past them to their expression.

His utter unresponsiveness vexed Thor. Why did he not _do_ something, say something, spit insults at his captors, anything?

“Um…” Thor searched for a question that might spur a reaction from him. “Will you tell me your name?”

Silence. The prisoner did not look at him. He was studying his hands.

“My name is Thor. I am—“

“I know who you are, Odinson.”

His voice was quiet but clear, and held no emotion. Its delicate timbre startled Thor—he had expected a rumbling, harsh voice, despite the Jotun’s size.

“So you do speak,” Thor said smugly, crossing his arms over his chest. “Well, Laufeyson? Will you tell me your first name, now that you know mine?”

He could not be sure, but he thought he saw the prince of Jotunheim flinch at the mention of his surname.

“Why do you bother, Son of Odin? If my life is forfeit, surely it makes no difference.” His voice was weary, for a child’s.

_He speaks so fluently_ , Thor marveled. _I wonder why_. I would have expected giants to grunt and use small words. All of the stories painted the creatures as brutish and unintelligent.

“Why…” Thor hesitated. But he was too curious, and now that he had gotten the prince to speak, he would seize the opportunity. “Why are you so small? I thought Frost Giants would be…well…giant.”

The prisoner swallowed hard and his crimson eyes widened.

“I don’t know,” he said simply.

Thor wanted to press further, but was not sure how.

After a moment, the prisoner asked quietly, “Why do you keep me here? Why have you not killed me yet? What is your father waiting for?”

Thor stepped back. “It is dishonorable to harm helpless things, he says.”

The prince of Jotunheim snorted softly. His lips turned up into what Thor could only guess was a smirk. “What a pretty sentiment. Yes, I am sure the All-Father was simply overcome with pity for me, the spawn of his sworn enemy. More likely, he enjoys watching me wait and fret over my fate.”

“Do not speak of my father this way!” Thor growled, flushing with indignation. “He is a great and noble king.”

“Am I unjust?” He raised his eyebrows. “Surely he could have no motive to keep me alive, unless he plans to torture me. Pure altruism and kingship cannot coexist.”

Thor could hear his pulse hammering in his ears—how dare he make such groundless accusations against the All-Father? He struggled to keep his breathing steady, and might have hit the cell wall in anger, were he not aware that the magical boundary would burn his hand.

“He did not have to spare your life, creature,” Thor said through clenched teeth. “You should be grateful my father is so merciful!”

The Jotun looked at him silently for a moment.

“I am not going to give you all the satisfaction of begging for my life,” the prisoner said flatly. “But if you mean to slay me, would you please just do it quickly? It’s the waiting that I cannot bear.”

This statement was all very matter-of-fact; perhaps deceptively so, for even Thor noticed his voice crack halfway through it, and the way the prince hugged his knees even more tightly, as if hoping to disappear. The patch of frost on the floor around him crept forward a few inches. His face might be alien, but the body language was surprisingly recognizable.

And it occurred to him, for the first time— _he is even younger than I am. He must be…frightened_.

Just a day before, the thought might have made Thor gleeful. Enemies of Asgard should be afraid. He would have enjoyed taunting the creature for sport, like poking at a snake with a stick. So why did his insides suddenly feel all knotted up, as if in guilt?

“No one is going to kill you or hurt you.” The words fell out of Thor’s mouth before he even decided to speak them. “I promise.”

Red eyes glared at him disbelievingly.

“Truly,” he assured him.

The suspicion lingered in his silence, but the prisoner relaxed his frigid posture some—that, at least, Thor could read as encouraging, even if his face was as inscrutable as ever.

_Honesty will gain his trust_ , Thor decided.

“You are a political prisoner, not a common criminal,” Thor explained, echoing his father’s earlier words. “That means the All-Father expects to make a bargain for your freedom with the King of Jotunheim—to use you as leverage. That is all.”

Laufeyson blinked. Then, to Thor’s immense shock, he began to laugh—a cold, mirthless laugh that made Thor shiver. It sounded unnatural coming from one so young.

“You expect my father to bargain for my freedom? You think my father will come to save me?” He shook his head, still laughing. “Your king has made the wrong gamble, Odinson.”

Thor’s brow furrowed. “Surely he will rescue you,” he mumbled uneasily.

The disquieting laughter died. The son of Laufey curled up into a ball again.

“He will not come for me,” he said in a hollow voice.

Thor could not think of a reply. He felt very cold.

_The Jotuns must be barbarians indeed, if he is so convinced his father would abandon him_ , he told himself. _Their family bonds must be weaker than ours._

Yet, inexplicably, the sight of the little prisoner, arms wrapped around himself in poorly disguised distress, made Thor want to approach the cell.

“You will be safe here, and then you will go home, Laufeyson. I promise.”

He did not know why it mattered to him so much, to ease the hostage’s fears. Perhaps the prisoner’s low opinion of Asgard wounded Thor’s pride, and he wished to restore his realm’s honor. _They_ , after all, were not the monsters. _They_ had a sense of decency that clearly befuddled the Jotuns.

The blue features twitched briefly into a smile. “I do not think you have the power to make that promise, Thor Odinson.”

Feeling the conversation was at its close, Thor awkwardly turned to leave, saying, “I will come again tomorrow, Laufeyson.” He did not know if he had obtained the information his father was after, but it seemed likely that he would be sent here again.

The prisoner cleared his throat hesitantly.

“Loki.”

Thor wheeled back to face the cell. “What?”

“My name is Loki,” he said.

Thor nodded once. “I will come again tomorrow, Loki.”

* * *

 

The prince of Asgard had already disappeared down the hall before Loki murmured, almost under his breath, “Until then, Thor.”

It was silly and stupid to look forward to a visit from his enemy, for the inane conversation of a spoiled prince whose devotion to his father was blind, who would surely do nothing but gloat and mock—yet it was something to break up the monotony. He was not afraid, he told himself, merely bored.

The lie was a feeble one.

It had been easy to address the King of Asgard with quiet contempt, to pretend he did not feel his whole body trembling with terror, when he had thought death imminent—at least it would probably be quick and painless—but once his fate became no longer so clear, Loki had been unable to speak to any adult, or even make eye contact. Healers had closed the wound on his shoulder before bringing him here to this cell. What if this meant his captors wanted him whole before they killed him slowly?

In his mind, he could almost hear his father’s deep voice, filled with its usual disdain: _Compose yourself. It is the Æsir who wear their emotions so proudly; a proper Jotun keeps a stoic appearance, especially before their enemies._

Loki’s lips twitched. His father’s assessment was right, if his brief encounter with Thor was an illustrative example. Thor was certainly one to be emotionally transparent. Quick outbursts of emotion, without any sort of filter or attempt at subterfuge. _No one is going to hurt you_ , he had promised, and Loki could find no lie in his face. He didn’t think the brash prince was capable of convincingly deceiving.

_All that proves is that_ Thor _does not think anyone will hurt you_ , Loki reminded himself quickly. _It does not prove that no one will._

And yet…the prince of Asgard, as thick and exasperating as he might be, had a strangely comforting presence—but surely that was only because annoyance was a blissfully distracting emotion.

The smirk slid off Loki’s face. Now that he was alone again, the dungeon seemed even quieter and emptier than it had before Thor had visited.

_Do not show fear, do not give them the satisfaction, do not cry, do not cry, do not cry…_

Loki buried his face in his knees, choking in misery, biting his tongue until he tasted blood with the effort of holding back his tears.

_No one is coming for you._


	3. Chapter 3

“All-Father, we have urgent news to report from the battle-front.”

Odin looked up at the intruder in his study, an Einherjar warrior clearly fresh from battle, his armor dented and spattered with mud, who was now bowing in apology for having burst eagerly into the room. His face was uneasy.

“What news?” he asked. Few dared disturb the All-Father’s solitude in this room, as he sat hunched over maps and half-finished battle plans—even Frigga left him alone to his thoughts when he retreated here—so the messenger’s news must be urgent.

In reply, he set a heap of metal on the table before him: a helmet and a double-sided battleax, filthy with dried blood. They were not too remarkable in their own right, beyond the craftsmanship—but Odin recognized the engravings on them.

“This is dwarf-wrought iron,” he observed. “Where did you find these?”

“In the Midgardian city we recaptured, my king, after the battle. We found many others like them on our slain enemies.”

At least Jotunheim’s small victories were no longer entirely inexplicable: they were receiving aid from another realm. How far that aid extended, however, remained to be seen.

“But there has been no sign of dwarf troops?” he ascertained.

“No, my king. Still, these weapons…”

Indeed, this was troubling. Relations between Nidavellir and Jotunheim had never been friendly. To the contrary, the giants’ mistrust towards the dwarves went back almost as long as their friction with the Æsir. And the dwarves kept mostly to themselves, rarely venturing out of their mines and underground cities, self-sufficient and mostly indifferent to the concerns of the other eight realms. _What could Laufey have to offer them for their assistance?_ Odin pondered, his brow crumpling in frustration. He could not shake the feeling that the answer was already plainly before him, though he could not see it. _What is there to be gained from taking Midgard? What are you_ after _, Laufey?_

Odin dismissed the soldiers with a gesture, too absorbed in his thoughts to spare words for them.

This revelation changed everything, and nothing. That two rogue realms would ally themselves against Asgard—it was unprecedented. Was their mutual resentment toward the Æsir enough to unite the dwarves and the Jotuns? Why now, and not during the first Jotun War? Neither Jotunheim nor Nidavellir was particularly strong in its own right, and even combined could hardly present a catastrophic threat to the universe, but the divisions in Yggdrasil would fester and spread if order was not restored quickly.

In his abstraction, Odin’s gaze drifted to the darkened window. Night had fallen over Asgard. The city, radiant gold in daylight, was dimmed and softened by starlight. Though the thirst for exploration and conquest was in his blood, he was always glad to return to his realm. On Midgard, the constellations were not the same, not as bright, not as close. He did prefer that realm to Jotunheim, he mused, where the stars could rarely be seen at all.

He had visited Laufey’s son in the dungeons earlier that evening. The boy would not say a word to him, refused to even look at him. Though the All-Father’s questions had been posed as gently and nonthreateningly as possible— _will you tell me your name, what brought you to Midgard, do you know what your father is doing there, are you still frightened of me?_ —the foreign prince studied the floor of his cell with a blank expression. It did not take long for Odin to realize questioning him was futile. It was as though he had regressed from the day of his capture.

He suppressed a chuckle, remembering the boy’s impertinent remark when they had first met. Now, he thought with a disappointed sigh, the prince seemed _more_ afraid.

“Guards,” he said at last. “Bring my son here. I must have a word with him.”

Ordinarily, it would have taken hours to locate the energetic crown prince and drag him inside to his father. But because of his current punishment, there were far fewer places to search. Thor was standing in his study mere minutes later with a cross expression.

“Have you done as I asked you, Thor?” Odin asked, choosing to ignore the way his son was frowning. He knew Thor was pouting about being cooped up in the palace—his friends Sif, Fandral, and Hogun had probably not helped matters—but Odin did not plan to negotiate.

“Yes, I talked to the Frost Giant, just as you wanted.”

“And did he speak to you?”

Thor nodded. “He said his name is Loki.”

“Ah,” said the All-Father. It was just as he had suspected; the less threatening figure of a child his age was more successful in comforting and coaxing. “So you have made more progress than I. Did he say anything else to you?”

Thor bit his lip. His frown became more troubled than sullen as scuffed his boots restlessly against the floor. “He said…he did not think his father would bargain with you. He does not expect Laufey to come for him.” He looked up at Odin, confusion in his eyes. “He thinks that we are planning to kill him. He would not believe me when I said we would not.”

Odin carefully controlled his response to this information; he simply filed it away to consider later.

“You did well, Thor,” he assured him, laying a hand on his shoulder. “But you must go again tomorrow. This is very important: you must keep speaking with Loki, and encourage Loki to speak with you. Anything he says might prove useful.”

“Yes, Father,” Thor grumbled.

Odin raised an eyebrow. “Was it truly such a chore to be civil with Loki?”

Thor fidgeted for a moment. “He is very...He spoke rudely about you. But I defended your honor, Father,” he added quickly.

Odin’s lips twitched with amusement, but he could not deny the small swell of relief hearing that Prince Loki was not utterly lost to his fear after all. “I would not have expected anything different,” Odin said. “Tell me, Thor, if you had been imprisoned on Jotunheim by Laufey, how would you respond?”

Thor’s brow furrowed. “Well, that has not happened. How could I know?”

Odin sighed. His son had imagination enough for his age, but could not consider hypothetical situations very well without putting in a great amount of effort, which he rarely desired to do. The here and now tended to consume him.

“I must return to Midgard the day after next,” Odin said, returning to the point. “The war there rages on still. But I will send Huginn or Muninn to Asgard every day, and they can report back to me anything you may learn from the prisoner. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Father.” “Now off to bed with you, before your mother finds you still awake,” Odin said with a small smile. “Tomorrow you have important work to do.”

Thor grinned, chest swelling with pride at being entrusted with an important task for his father. He was an uncanny mirror-image of Odin himself at that age, when he had hero-worshiped his own father, Bor, and yearned to be just like him. He smoothed Thor’s thick golden hair off his forehead—the same color Odin’s had once been, so long ago—before the impetuous prince bounded out of the room.


	4. Chapter 4

Loki awoke with a start, coughing and choking, as if a colossal hand had suddenly released its stranglehold around his throat.

He lay still, concentrating on making his breaths come slow and deep. Where was he? Why was he so uncomfortably warm that his face was beaded with sweat? Eventually his eyes adjusted to the gloom, and he had shaken off sleep enough to remember.

_Of course. Asgard, you imbecile. Do you not recollect the last two days?_

The realization was far from pleasant, but his first reaction was frustration. Even in this place, even after being captured by his enemies and locked away in an underground vault, the familiar bad dreams had followed him here from Jotunheim. One would think that at least these experiences in waking life ought to give his night terrors some more variety—but no. He never could remember more than snatches of them after waking—mere sensations, without any import—of being afraid and unable to breathe. Just nightmares, no basis in reality, no meaning that Loki could unravel. Yet for years they had plagued him relentlessly.

He sat up, and to his surprise a linen blanket fell off him; someone must have draped it over him while he slept, for it had not been there before. It was a thin material, but still too warm for him in this inhospitably stuffy climate. Were they trying to be kind, he wondered, or trying to make him suffer more?

Pressing his palm to the floor, he created a ring of ice, as if to protect himself. It provided some physical relief, but it reminded him of his dream—he remembered now there had been snow swirling hatefully around him, and his vision fading away as if he were losing consciousness as he choked and struggled to breathe—

 _Stop crying!_ He reprimanded himself, hating his own weakness. _Stop shaking! It was only a silly dream and it means nothing. If Father were here, he would despise you for being afraid of nightmares that you can barely remember._

But reality was not much better. He longed for morning to come. (Or perhaps it was already day. The time was impossible to determine in this underground vault.) Mostly, he longed for some noise, some distraction from his own thoughts. Even the gruff presence of the guards bringing him food was preferable to complete emptiness—because Loki’s imagination would always fill in the unknown with grotesque chimeras, no matter how much he willed himself to be rational. Nowhere is safe. Not Jotunheim, not Asgard, not Midgard. Nowhere to go… He bit down hard on his lip to keep himself from sobbing aloud, lest the guards should hear him. But holding it in was like putting a cork on a bottle of ale and shaking it up—the pressure only built and built, until he thought he would be sick with it.

The last time he had cried like this was his last naming-day, several months ago on Jotunheim. He always dreaded that day, because it made Laufey’s barely-suppressed resentment resurface, and yet it was impossible to avoid his presence completely.

( _Why should I celebrate the day you killed your mother, Loki? If you ever need a reminder that the Norns have a cruel sense of irony, just remember that a great queen died giving life to a pitiful, useless runt._ )

Presently, realms away, in the hands of his enemies, he comforted himself the same way he did then. He retreated in his mind to the one place of solace he truly had—he clung to it, though it was but the faintest wisp of a memory. A memory of kind eyes, looking at him without loathing. Being held. Rocked to sleep. _It is absurd and childish to believe you remember anything of your mother_ , he often told himself the morning after, once he was removed from the nightmares and the creeping shadows and the feelings of dread. _This is not really a memory; no one remembers their infancy. She died before you were a day old._ Most likely, his mind had manufactured this false reminiscence, constructed an image of whatever he thought a mother should be based on the various nursemaids who had cared for him instead.

He knew it was foolish, but he needed desperately to retreat into the arms of this sweet delusion, this phantom memory; it was his only relief. He did not fall back asleep, but managed to quiet his sobs after a few hours. By the time the guard stopped by his cell to shove a hunk of bread and a mug of cheap ale at him, Loki had composed himself.

* * *

 

Thor kept his word and came to visit Loki in the morning. The prince of Asgard sat himself cross-legged on the floor in front of Loki’s cell.

When Loki had first come into contact with the Æsir, he had found them difficult to tell apart—all of them had white eyes and soft pink flesh—but now, upon further study, he wondered how he could ever have thought them so indistinguishable. Thor sat closer this time, and so Loki was able to note small details about the prince that he had not before: the faint freckles sprinkled across his nose, the small gap between his two front teeth, the way his knees bounced like he was always ready to spring into action. His eyes, wide and expectant, were pale blue, like ice—no, too warm to be ice, Loki amended; they more resembled Asgard’s sky on a cloudless day, like the one he had glimpsed before being locked in this cell.

“What brings you here again, son of Odin?” Loki asked, in as withering a tone as he could manage: he couldn’t have Thor knowing how impatient he’d been for his return. Irritation was so much more comfortable an emotion than fear.

Thor shrugged. “I thought you might be bored,” he said simply.

“And my entertainment is your ultimate concern, I’m sure.” Loki gave him a piercing stare.

Thor’s ruddy face grew pinker; he cracked easily under Loki’s scrutiny. _Curious_ , Loki thought, _the way the Æsir respond to embarrassment or anger by becoming even warmer._

“My father wants me to keep talking to you. And I was bored, too,” Thor admitted, fiddling with the hem of his red tunic. “He won’t let me outside for my sparring lessons, so…it was either here or the library.” He scrunched up his nose at the last phrase, as if disgusted at the idea of books.

But Loki sat up straighter. “You have a library here?” he asked, unable to keep the excitement from his voice.

“Of course we have a library here,” Thor frowned, looking disgruntled. “Do you read? I didn’t think Frost Giants had books.”

Now it was Loki’s turn to be annoyed. “You think very little of our intelligence, don’t you?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “That seems highly hypocritical on your part.”

“No, you’ve made your superiority very clear,” Thor retorted, scowling. “You have an awful lot of scorn for a _monster_.”

Loki’s eyes narrowed. “And you’re rather arrogant for a warrior that can’t even lift a proper sword yet,” he snapped.

Loki had a talent for devising insults without needing to give them much thought—he knew all too well that the right words could cut as keenly as a knife’s edge—which was just as well, because his mind was still slowly turning over Thor’s last sentence, ignoring his sputters of outrage. Monster. _Monster_. He had never thought of himself as a monster before. Yet Thor’s tone dripped animosity; clearly he meant the epithet. Monster. Not merely an enemy to be defeated, but an inferior being. A voice in his head, deep and cold as if it came from the depths of a cavern, whispered, _Is that not what I have told you all along? Even the Asgardians are not blind to your deficiencies_. He shivered, trying to shake away the horribly familiar voice—the one he knew was only in his mind and yet was surely what Father _would_ say, were he here—and bring himself back to the conversation at hand.

Thor was speaking again, oblivious to his abstraction. “My father wouldn’t want me to be fighting with you,” Thor grumbled. His face was still red, and he spoke through gritted teeth, as if it were painful for him to obey this order. “He said…he said not to provoke an enemy when they are defenseless.”

Loki bristled at this description of himself, but could not immediately come up with an acerbic response. “Then what are you going to do, Asgardian?” he asked coldly. “If not entertain yourself by taunting me, I mean.”

“I don’t know. Maybe I’ll just go upstairs to the library,” Thor said, crossing his arms sullenly.

“Do whatever you please. It makes no difference to me.”

“Alright then, I will!”

The prince of Asgard turned on his heel and stomped off towards the exit, slamming the heavy wooden door on his way out with a resounding clang. It echoed all the way down the hall.

 _Well done, Loki_ , he thought to himself sarcastically, _now you have alienated your only possible ally here, the only one who has made you less miserable. Brilliant, simply a brilliant plan—_

To Loki’s immense surprise, the door cracked open a few inches, and Thor’s head reappeared in the gap to look back at Loki.

“Do…do you want me to bring some books back for you?”

Loki was startled to hear hesitancy in his voice, as if Thor regretted his stormy departure. It seemed that the older prince’s anger was not unlike a strike of lightning: sudden, hot, and brief, burning out almost as soon as it was expressed. Loki swallowed hard, and nodded.

“I’ll be back later, then,” Thor said, and left, shutting the door more softly this time.

* * *

 Thor kicked over a wooden stool, and it clattered loudly into the bookshelf behind it. The scholars sitting at a nearby table glared at him reprovingly for the disturbance, but he did not care; he needed to vent his frustration somehow, and the stuffy presence of all these books only exacerbated it. Something about the silence of books made him resent them—how they could not simply tell Thor what he needed to know, but had to be ambiguous and flowery and force him to search for meaning until his head swam with impatience.

He shouldn’t have said that to Loki. It was exactly what his father had told him not to do. He was not certain what had aroused his temper, made him say “monster.” _If he wasn’t so calculating and unnerving, I wouldn’t have said that_ , Thor thought. _If he didn’t act like he was above me while sitting in a prison cell!_

If Father found out about their exchange, he might extend Thor’s punishment, and he could not bear another week of this confinement. When he saw Sif and Fandral at dinner tonight, he knew they would regale him with stories about today’s lessons, and their cheeks would still be flushed with excitement and exercise—while he sulked and asked Hogun to help him with his rune translations. He itched to stretch his legs properly, to breathe in the fresh air and destroy something. _I must do as Father says._ Then, with a sudden burst of hope, he thought, _Perhaps if I do especially well, he will lift my punishment early!_

This thought spurred him into action. He scanned through the shelves and extracted several leather-bound tomes that looked exceptionally dull. He did not know what a Frost Giant would like to read, but then again, he could not see the appeal of the activity at all. If one wanted a thrilling tale, listening to a skald tell a saga at a banquet seemed far more entertaining. A book could not speak, after all.

He gathered up as many volumes as he could carry, and scampered out of the palace library. He almost tripped over a stair as he descended to the dungeons once more, unable to see over his stack. _At least one of these ought to satisfy him,_ Thor supposed. _And Father will see that I am being the honorable one_.

However…if he were being truly honest with himself, getting back into his father’s good graces was not his sole motivator. With a twinge of regret, he tried to force away the memory of Loki’s face after being called a monster. _But he is, he is the monster of legends, the kind of creature the hero always slays in the stories. It matters not whether he is a miniature one._

So why did he feel that prickling feeling in his throat, like guilt? Why did his cheeks burn with shame? He tried to only imagine the crimson eyes and blue skin—features so unlike his own—and not the flicker of anguish in their expression. It had lasted but a moment, and had soon been replaced with cold reserve, which had made it easier for Thor’s temper to boil up again. But in that instant, Loki had looked so helpless. Thor did not want to see that look again; he wanted to banish it forever.

And so he took a stack of books to him. He threw them all down at his feet as soon as he stood in front of Loki’s cell once more, his arms aching from carrying them all this way.

“I didn’t know what you would like,” Thor said, “so I brought as many as I could carry.”

He smiled proudly at just how many books that signified. Loki had actually stood up upon Thor’s reentrance as if in excitement, his red eyes wide. Thor noticed that the Jotun prince stood at least a head shorter than him, and was very thin. And if Thor was not mistaken, his lips had curved briefly into a smile: not a smirk, but a genuine smile.

They stared at the heap of papers for a moment. It seemed to occur to them simultaneously that, thanks to the magical barrier of Loki’s prison cell, Thor would not be able to hand him anything. A door could be created by a special key the guards carried, but Thor did not think luxuries like books were allowed for the prisoners.

“So…it seems we overlooked something crucial,” Loki said dryly. His eyes had dulled again.

Thor’s shoulders slumped. His good deed had come to naught. It hurt to see the littler prince become so animated at the sight of the books, and now deflate completely. He yearned to bring the brightness back into his eyes. The Jotun looked less strange, more familiar, when he wore that expression.

“Wait,” Thor said, perking up. “I could read to you.”

Loki raised an eyebrow skeptically. Acts of kindness were clearly foreign to the Jotun prince, thought Thor, who began to see an opportunity to better fulfill his father’s task.

“If I read one story to you today,” said Thor slowly, “will you answer a question for me?”

Loki’s red eyes narrowed. “What do you wish to know? Are you hoping I will reveal any secret plans of my father’s?”

Thor shrugged. “I want to know how you came to be on Midgard.”

Loki blinked a few times, as if he had not expected that question. Evidently, he comprehended reciprocity better than benevolence, for he said after a moment, with haughty reluctance, “Very well. I will accept your bargain.”

But Thor caught a glimpse of a smile. Picking up a tome at random, he sat on the dungeon floor and began to read aloud. “‘Part One: The Life and Death of Scyld. Lo! the Spear-Danes’ glory through splendid achievements the folk-kings’ former fame we have heard of, how princes displayed then their prowess-in-battle…”

It was an epic tale from Midgard, about a hero who slays a monster that was terrorizing a small kingdom. Thor had heard it told at banquets many times before. But it was evidently new to Loki, who listened intently with his head cocked to one side. Occasionally he corrected Thor’s pronunciation, or rolled his eyes when he stumbled over big words, a habit that Thor found irritating, but otherwise he sat very still and seemed absorbed. When they reached Thor’s favorite part—when the hero tears the monster’s arm off—Loki winced visibly.

Finally, the saga concluded with the hero’s funeral pyre burning into the sky. Thor shut the tome with a satisfied sigh.

“That was a very sad tale,” Loki said quietly.

“Sad?” Thor scoffed. “How was it sad?”

“The hero dies at the end. He won all that wealth for his people but never had the chance to see them prosper from it.”

“He died a glorious death in battle,” Thor insisted, “with honor.”

Thor had already fantasized about his own memorable demise, hopefully involving several venomous lindwyrms, a ferocious dragon, a herd of rampaging bilgesnipes, and an army of Fire Giants. This epic battle would take place after he had ruled Asgard wisely for thousands of years, and had energy in him for one last adventure. Of course, he would need to die slowly enough to give a dramatic dying speech and bid tearful farewells to his friends.

“That means he went to Valhalla,” Thor continued.

Loki frowned. “Valhalla?”

Thor barked with laughter. “Do you mean the Frost Giants do not even know of Valhalla? The splendid feasting-hall where brave warriors are rewarded after death?”

 _The Jotuns must not think about anything beyond their physical needs_ , Thor speculated. _But to never have even heard of Valhalla!_

“Only the warriors?” Loki asked. “What becomes of the others?”

Thor paused. “Well, they go to Helheim, I suppose,” he said uncomfortably. He did not like thinking about that.

“And what is Helheim?”

“It is dark and misty,” he shrugged. “It is somewhere deep in Niflheim. Not many have returned to tell stories of it.”

Loki shook his head. “It still seems a tragic ending, to die at the moment of victory.”

“At least he died with his companion at his side,” said Thor. “If I have to die, I want my brother-in-arms with me.”

As he had reread the saga, it occurred to Thor that part of the fantasy was missing: he needed a stalwart companion with him to the end, like all the heroes did. Someone to hold him in his dying moments, to kiss his brow and send him off to Valhalla in a longship, to wear his vambraces in remembrance. _Fandral and Hogun would do all that_ , he assured himself. _The heroes in the stories usually only have one best friend, but I have several. I suppose I’m luckier_.

He satisfied himself with the mental image of Sif weeping over his funeral pyre and vowing to avenge him.

“Is that a common sentiment on Asgard?” the Jotun prince asked, his head tilted to the side in curiosity.

“Yes, it—wait a moment.” Thor scowled at him suspiciously. “I have been answering all the questions. Are you trying to distract me from our bargain? You promised to tell me something.”

Loki smiled, seeming very pleased with himself. “Very well, Odinson, I shall keep to our bargain. I came to be on Midgard by stowing away on a supply wagon traveling with my father’s army. I am quite adept at hiding, you see.”

“But why would you do that?” Thor asked, perplexed. “Why did you want to go to Midgard at all? You are too young to fight yet.”

“I agreed to answer _one_ question for _one_ story, if you recall,” Loki smirked. “It is not my fault that you chose to ask ‘how’ instead of ‘why.’”

Thor exhaled in an angry huff. The Jotun had tricked him, twisted the outcome on a technicality, on semantics. This short, enigmatic answer was all he would receive for reading that long story. _That is what I get for trusting the word of a Frost Giant_ , he thought bitterly. _They never play fair_.

“If you wish for another answer, I am willing to give it,” Loki continued innocently, “ _if_ you read me another story.”


	5. Chapter 5

In the women’s quarters of the palace, it would be difficult to believe that the realms were at war.

Servants were presently clearing away luncheon from the queen’s sitting room. The guests, three noblewomen of Alfheim, had departed by now. A purely social visit, ostensibly—yet with foreign dignitaries, pleasantries and gossip were always significant, a microcosm of relations between kingdoms. Today, Frigga could assure her husband of Alfheim’s continued loyalty, and erase the doubts that had crept in with the news of the dwarves’ underhanded rebellion.

Now alone, she sighed, letting her careful smile fall away to reveal the anxious wrinkles in her forehead. She needed to keep her hands busy as she reflected, so she sat down at her weaving loom and started to work. The task wasn’t entirely mindless, but the familiarity was always soothing.

Outside this room, she could not afford to show any weakness. For order to be restored in the Nine Realms, Asgard could not have a single crack in its armor, and that included the mental stability of its king and queen. Yet she fretted for her husband, who despite his strength and wisdom was not invincible: the same fear she had had when Odin and Laufey had battled before, when Thor had been a mere toddler. The same fear she knew she would have someday when her boy became a man, and left home in search of adventure. The same fear that thousands of wives and mothers were experiencing at this very moment right along with her.

Suddenly the door burst open. Frigga raised her eyebrows at the unexpected visitor.

“I believe it is customary to knock before entering someone’s room, Lady Sif,” she said mildly. “Surely your mother has taught you better manners than that.”

The child who had rushed in out of breath bowed her head and curtsied awkwardly.

“Sorry, My Lady.” What manners Sif had, she reserved for Frigga.

“What brings you here, Lady Sif?”

“Do you know where Thor is, Your Majesty?” Sif asked, advancing into the room and searching with her eyes. “We cannot find him anywhere.”

“You know full well that he is not allowed to play outside with you today,” said Frigga. “I think he will survive a few more hours in the library.”

Sif groaned. “But Hogun has already searched the library, and did not find him there!”

“Then perhaps he is in his room.”

“Fandral already looked there.”

“Well, I do not know, dear,” Frigga sighed. She might have worried that Thor had snuck out of the palace somehow, if his determination had been coupled with a little more cunning—but as it was, her son, Norns bless him, was anything but subtle. “He could be in the armory, I suppose.”

Sif’s eyes brightened. “Thank you, Your Majesty, I did not think of that!”

Before she could rush from the chamber as noisily as she had entered, Frigga clasped her gently by the wrist. “What would your mother say if she saw you dressed like that again, Lady Sif?”

Sif was wearing a boy’s tunic: it looked suspiciously like an old one that Thor had outgrown. A wooden sword hung from her belt.

Scowling, she complained, “It is too difficult to run in dresses.”

“Yes, I rather think that is the idea,” Frigga chuckled. “Your mother has made it perfectly clear that she wants you to behave in a more ladylike fashion.” She phrased this carefully, leaving out her own opinions; it was not her place to interfere in the way Lady Brynja raised her daughter.

“I do not wish to be a _lady_ ,” said Sif, pronouncing the word with disgust. “Ladies cannot do anything useful.”

“Oh, can we not?” Frigga remarked, raising her eyebrows in feigned offense.

Embarrassment crossed the girl’s face. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty, I did not mean—”

“I know, Lady Sif,” the queen said, taking Sif’s small hands in her own. “But perhaps someday you will see that a lady’s work is every bit as important, even if it is not as visible.”

Ordinarily, Sif seemed to enjoy vexing authority, but she displayed more respect for the queen, due to the rapport between them. Though her brow was furrowed in frustration, she merely looked at the floor.

“But I want to be a warrior and fight battles,” Sif insisted.

Frigga wished she could explain that not all battles were won by swords—that words could be weapons, that tact and grace could be armor, that diplomacy could be a shield. But something told her that, while this was all true for _her_ , this was not to be Sif’s path, no matter how Lady Brynja struggled to control her willful daughter. Sif was as hungry for adventure and heroism as any son of Asgard—every bit as fearless and reckless as Thor—and would seek out glory someday whether she received permission or not. _If only her mother would encourage the child she has, instead of trying to shape her into the image of the child she wants_ , Frigga thought with a pang.

Instead of giving voice to these thoughts, Frigga smiled conspiratorially. “I will tell you a secret, Lady Sif. Kings may win most wars, but it is usually the queens who prevent them.”

This, at least, managed to coax a smile from the girl. “But I will not be a queen like you, My Lady. Would I not have to marry a king?”

Frigga hid her smirk. “Yes, I suppose you would.”

Sif shuddered, to Frigga’s amusement—she was still at the age when the thought of kissing a boy was disgusting, though playing knights-and-dragons with them was a different matter.

“May I go now?” Sif asked, bouncing impatiently. “First let me tie your hair back,” said Frigga, beckoning her over. When the child grimaced, she added, “So that it does not get in your face while you are running.”

Evidently this reasoning placated Sif, as she came and sat beside Frigga, though she fidgeted in place as the queen combed through her tangles. Frigga felt slightly guilty for her motivation in keeping Sif close just a little longer—in truth, she missed having a child depend on her, stay close to her.

As dearly as she loved Thor, he was an autonomous child and always had been; even as a tot he would rarely sit on her lap, but preferred to crawl around on his own. He had preferred to suffer through scrapes and bruises rather than allow his mother to prevent him from falling. _He is more his father’s son_ , she thought, and this gave her no small amount of pride—but also a little sadness. True to her tenets, she would never try to restrain Thor against his nature. He would be a valiant warrior someday, just like his father. But this meant that, now that her son was too old to be coddled and preferred independence, he felt he did not need his mother anymore. _It happens with all children_ , she reminded herself, _especially at this age_.

As if to punctuate this point, Sif wriggled out of her grasp the instant her fine hair was tied back into a braid.

She tried not to grieve that there would be no more children, because Thor was more than enough, he was the sun and stars to her, a part of herself, her flesh and blood, but she could not help but wonder, if Balder had lived— _Why am I thinking of Balder?_ She tried to shake the memory away. Surely the present was pressing enough to demand her attention away from a miscarriage that had happened years ago. _I am only reminded of him because of the war_ , she told herself firmly. Yes, that was it. The memories were coming to the forefront because she had lost her second child during the First Jotun War.

She had never told Thor that he could have had a brother. Thor was not a lonely child. He made friends easily, and passed most of his days in their company. Yet Frigga regretted that he was an only child, for he was, admittedly, spoiled and without much responsibility, since he had no siblings with whom to share the attention. _If his younger brother had lived to be born, how different would things be?_ she wondered. _Would he still sit by my side and listen to my stories, which Thor claims to have outgrown? Would he tag along with his brother on adventures when he was grown? Would I feel relief, knowing my boys would keep each other safe?_

“Thank you, My Lady,” Sif said, bowing her head and rushing to the door to resume the search for her friend. “You will not tell my mother, will you? About—”

“Just be sure to put your gown back on before you go home tonight, and she will be none the wiser,” Frigga assured her, and the child grinned.

Sif hovered in the doorway for a moment. “My lady, the All-Father has just come back from the front. Has there…has there been any news of my father?”

Frigga bit her lip as she studied the girl’s cautiously eager face. Sif’s father Geir was a high-ranking commander currently stationed on Midgard. “No, Sif, I am afraid I have heard very little from the All-Father since his return,” she confessed. “But I am certain if anything were amiss, you would already know.”

Sif’s eyes dimmed in disappointment as she shut the door glumly behind her.

Her question had reawakened another concern in Frigga: she had barely seen Odin since the day he had come home, and seemed unduly preoccupied. He did not like to be disturbed when strategizing, but she needed to ensure that all was well, and reporting on her meeting with Alfheim’s emissaries seemed as good a pretext as any.

Odin must have agreed, for her allowed her to enter the study, and complied when she asked to see him alone. He barely glanced up at her over his map of Midgard. He was moving miniature ensigns around, presumably representing legions, and muttering under his breath, frowning deeply. Frigga’s heart sank upon seeing the deep shadows under his eyes. The luncheon tray beside him was untouched.

“What news from Alfheim?” he said curtly.

Instead of replying, she walked around behind him to place her hands on his shoulders and survey the map from his perspective. The cities marked with Laufey’s sigil seemed erratically distributed to her, but then, she did not claim to be an expert in battle tactics.

“You did not come to bed last night,” she chided him. “Have you even slept since your homecoming? And I do not include dozing in your chair for a few minutes.”

He snorted. “Always the mother hen,” he said under his breath. “I am a grown man, Frigga, I do not need to be watched over like a child.”

“I would agree with you, if you were to take better care of yourself without my henpecking.”

His lips twitched, but his face quickly darkened again. “My men are dying in the name of Asgard every moment,” he said quietly. “Their king should not surround himself in luxury in the meantime. There is too much work to be done.”

She sighed and bent down to kiss his temple. In happier times, she would have retorted, _Neglecting to care for yourself does not make you more of a man_. But her husband was too weary for their usual playful teasing, and her stomach was tying itself in knots over him.

“Asgard needs her king hale and strong, to protect her,” she said. “That is your responsibility right now. Your mind will not be at its best if you deprive it of sleep and food.”

Odin placed a hand over hers, allowing himself a moment to appreciate her comfort. “You need not fear so much for me, my love,” he murmured, finally turning around to look at her. “It is not the first time I have gone to war. I always come back to you in one piece, do I not?”

“Not always,” she said sadly, regarding his eye patch. Her anxiety was far greater whenever he was fighting against Laufey, because the latter seemed so personally vicious—even if the king of Jotunheim had to lose, he would not mind as long as the All-Father was destroyed along with him.

He smiled bitterly, seeming to understand what she meant. His gaze turned back to the map. “Perhaps I do need rest,” he admitted, “for none of this seems to make any sense at the moment. Laufey is receiving weapons—possibly other supplies as well—from the dwarves, but in return for what? I cannot fathom. So far he has been capturing numerous small cities and villages, but instead of holding them as we lay siege, most of the troops retreat elsewhere before we even arrive. Why?”

“Evasive maneuvers. They do not have the numbers to stand against you.”

“Yes, yes,” he said absently. “It seems as if Laufey is stalling for time, which unsettles me. I would feel more at ease if I could simply quash the invasion as quickly and simply as the first, but I cannot do so while having to chase Laufey’s troops all across the continent. And I hesitate to bring any massive weapons into play, when it would incur so much damage on a lesser realm which I have sworn to protect—”

“Odin,” Frigga interrupted softly, tightening her grip on his shoulders, “this is what he wants. Laufey knows he has not the numbers to defeat you, and he toying with your mind instead. You must not let him. You are stronger than he. You would never allow vengeance to carry you this far away from protecting your people.”

They were silent for a moment, hands clasped as though each hoped to pass some of their strength to the other.

Finally, Frigga straightened up and said briskly, “Do you promise me you will eat something, at least?”

“Yes, my queen,” he smirked.

“Good.”

“Where are you off to?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I had better find your son, before he gets into any mischief,” she sighed. “His friends cannot seem to find him.”

“I do not think there is any need. A boy his age tends to get into trouble, but he can hardly be in any danger. We cannot control him forever, my love, he’s a little whirlwind and he needs freedom.”

“Yes, but he seems in a habit lately of going places he should not,” Frigga said darkly. “Speaking of which, is it true that Laufey’s own son has been captured?”

“It is.”

“Has he told you anything of use?”

“Not yet, but I have hopes that he will,” Odin said. “He does not seem entirely uncooperative.” Privately, she was somewhat surprised by this; she would have expected a soldier and prince—especially from such a severe culture—to prefer death and pain over informing the enemy. “I trust you did reinforce our ties with Alfheim?” Odin asked. “That was, in theory, your purpose in visiting me, was it not?”

“Of course, my king,” she assured him. “You need not fear losing Lord Freyr’s allegiance. I merely reminded his sister, tactfully, who placed him on his throne in the first place.”

He nodded, satisfied.

“Eat something,” she said, glaring at him. “And if I do not see you in our chambers by nightfall, I shall return and drag you there myself.”

“Such fierce threats from such a gentle lady,” he remarked, raising his eyebrows in mock surprise.

“Do not test me, Odin.”

She could hear him chuckling reluctantly as she left the room.


	6. Chapter 6

Loki could remember the first time he had ever visited a library.

Though he had never been a brave child, he was starved for knowledge, which was enough to draw him frequently out of the palace to wander. Being so small and quiet, it was easy for him to hide, to slip away unnoticed and go wherever he pleased. Whenever Utgard’s sparse inhabitants deigned to notice him—usually because they had almost stepped on him—they did not realize he was their prince, thinking him a stray, a pest, an object of shame or annoyance. He knew what they must whisper to one another, because he had heard it before. _Poor little creature should have been put out of his misery as an infant_ , the kinder ones might say. _Life will be far too cruel to him_. The more pragmatic would likely shake their heads and say, _A runt should not be allowed to live in such times of scant resources_. He would shrink from their hulking presence, never speaking, never letting them study his face for too long, lest they notice his markings and recognize him.

Like much of the city, Utgard’s library was in ruins. Laufey had neither the resources nor inclination to repair it, and so it remained a wretched relic of a Jotunheim Loki had never known. There was a cavernous hole in the western wall and a great chunk of the ceiling was missing. Scorch marks remained like scars. Snow blew in from outside, curling around Loki as he crept inside. Most of the books had burned up in whatever explosion had leveled the building, but a handful had miraculously survived and lay amidst the rubble.

Loki picked one up with trembling hands, brushed the snow off its leather cover, and opened it. On the first page of vellum, in an unsteady hand:

_Here reads the account of Leirvor, former member of the Council of Elders, on the Great War between Jotunheim and Asgard: I write this to whomever might survive this catastrophe—be he Jotun, Æsir, or any other creature—so that someone will know how this all came to be, in the hopes of preventing history from repeating itself._

_The seeds of this war were planted three hundred and twelve winters ago, when Laufey our king ascended the throne to a factious government, promising reform and a return to the old ways. I myself rejoiced when one of his first decrees was to limit our communication and trade with Asgard, a reversal of the previous king’s open-door policy. It was a controversial decision. Progressives protested it, arguing that increased contact with other realms had sped along the development of our technology and had made Utgard into a thriving metropolis. Laufey’s father, the late King Vidblindi, had welcomed the visitors from across the galaxy, who had brought advances in medicine that cured many of our most terrible diseases._

_On the other hand, Traditionalists such as myself believed that too much of Jotunheim’s traditions were being neglected in favor of Asgard’s influence, which, as their power grew, seeped into the other realms insidiously. Jotun society was secularizing. Some of the elders, myself included, expressed our concerns that, although the Æsir meant well in sharing their knowledge and resources with the rest of the universe, they wanted to change Jotunheim into another Asgard, considered Jotun ideas inferior.My more extreme colleagues—I would have called them paranoid at the time—feared that Asgard would monitor Jotunheim politically and economically, whether we consented or not._

_After his coronation, Laufey vowed to purify Jotunheim. A generation ago, foreign influence in our art and architecture had become evident in Utgard, but now these styles were officially outlawed. Towers that resembled Vanaheim’s domes or Alfheim’s pyramids or Asgard’s arches were destroyed, while traditional Jotun spires were erected in their place. The council, which had been formed under Odin’s guidance, was disbanded and I was dismissed from my position, which is how I came to be a scribe at Utgard’s library._

_Laufey had seen how Midgard trembled before Asgard’s might—how the mortals meekly worshiped the Æsir as gods, formed their culture as a mirror-image of Asgard. But Jotunheim would not be so weak. We would not feed Asgard’s vanity so. We had pride in ourselves and our ancestors. The Æsir would not erase us, not even with kindness._

_Determined to reassert Jotunheim’s independence and her place among the realms, Laufey decided on a show of force. And what better way to spit in Odin’s eye than to steal away his favorite pet, the realm of sycophants whose lives passed with a single phase of our moons: Midgard? The mortals would tremble before us now, they would learn to fear snow and ice, they would accept only Laufey as king._

_To accomplish this, however, Laufey turned to a power he did not fully appreciate. The elders and priests advised against using the Casket of Ancient Winters as a weapon—it is meant to nourish life here. The relic supposedly dates from the time of Ymir himself, a part of Jotunheim’s essence, its very soul. Using the Casket to destroy was hardly short of sacrilege. Need we give Odin any more reason to take it from us, to keep us in his control with violence if subtler methods would not do?_

_But the young arrogant king only responded that he had no intention of losing. We would challenge the Æsir’s right to rule with the full power of Jotunheim. At first, it seemed Laufey’s gamble was paying off. The priests announced that Ymir’s blessing was with our king. His armies took large regions of Midgard. Laufey’s son and heir, Helblindi, was barely of age, yet fought eagerly beside him, while the queen expected another child back home._

Loki paused in his reading for a moment. The history had seemed so distant until this point, so he was startled at this subtle mention of himself, and the brother who he had only met through reading the engravings on his funeral stele. As the wind howled across the hole in the wall, he shivered and pulled his fur cloak tighter about himself—though he was more suited for the brutal climate than an Asgardian would be, he was not as impervious to the cold as the larger Jotuns. He continued reading:

_But then, tragedy began to rain upon him. First, Helblindi perished in battle—too young, too impetuous to know when to retreat. It was a great blow to the king, who had cherished his heir so much. When the news of his death reached home, some say the grief and anguish over losing her son caused Farbauti to go into labor too soon. The healers did everything they could, but she too died._

_Then, Laufey’s next misfortune: the child was but half-formed, a weakling, a runt. The birth of a runt into any Jotun family would, naturally, be an embarrassment, the object of pity and contempt, but in a royal family, it is nothing short of an ill omen. In times of war such as this, a bad omen is the last thing Laufey needs._

_He may be tempted to simply expose the child, as some have surely urged him, but he cannot afford to be so reckless. Jotunheim is now deprived of her heir, her queen regent, and the king’s consort. A runt for an heir is—marginally—better than no heir at all._

_Morale has plummeted. Even Laufey’s heart has grown heavy with so many calamities. Do the Norns punish us for our hubris? Do our ancestors punish us for using the Casket to destroy and subjugate? I do not know. All I know is that Laufey fights now out of sheer bitterness and spite, and Odin’s forces have pushed us out of Midgard._

_The Æsir lay siege to Utgard as I write this. We have barricaded the entrances, but from what I can hear of the battle outside, it seems laughably inadequate. Now it is clear that Odin was holding back on Midgard, trying to keep civilian deaths to a minimum—but here, he shows no such restraint. I may very well die tonight, and leave only this document behind, but I pray this realm will not utterly fall. May Ymir protect us and forgive us our folly._

That had been the end of the page. The rest of the book was blank. But Loki knew how the story ended: with the ruined, charred city outside.

Loki had returned to that library whenever he could manage to steal away from the palace, desperate for whatever scraps of information the surviving books could give him. (He dared not bring any back with him, for fear of incurring Laufey’s rage.) However, pages were often missing, torn or charred, leaving him with more questions than answers. Thus, when he had come across a volume on Midgard and its inhabitants, he had learned that mortals were small creatures—like him—and it had made him feel slightly less uniquely deformed. He had not, of course, understood that they did not look anything like him, that their physiology more resembled the Æsir’s, because the rest of the pages were illegible. 

* * *

Now Loki sat on the cool stone floor of Asgard’s dungeons, a veritable mountain of pristine books just on the other side of his cell wall, and it pained him to see the careless way Thor tossed them to the ground.

The Æsir prince was reading another story, occasionally glancing up at Loki with a resentful scowl. Loki suppressed a snicker. Thor had not yet forgiven his trick, it seemed. When he finished telling about the treaty formed between the Æsir and the Vanir after brutal war, Thor snapped the book shut and glared at Loki expectantly.

“Now it is your turn,” he said. “Why did you leave Jotunheim?”

Thor’s words sounded like they had been chosen very carefully—perhaps his reading had been so clumsy because his mind had been elsewhere, trying to prevent being outwitted again. _Well, at least he is learning some caution_ , Loki thought.

But now the time had come to give an answer, and Loki had not yet decided which one to give. He had to proceed delicately: he wanted to dole out as little information as possible, or else Thor might immediately seize upon whatever he needed and leave. At the same time, if he aggravated the stubborn prince too much, Thor might abandon their bargain anyways. _Is this what it has come to?_ He chided himself, shaking his head. _So hungry for attention that you must play mind games to keep him here?_

“I decided to leave Jotunheim,” Loki said carefully, “because my stepmother is going to have a baby very soon.”

Thor stared at him, his forehead furrowing, obviously perplexed. “That does not make sense,” he said bluntly. His blue eyes narrowed. “Is this another trick?”

“No, I am being perfectly truthful,” Loki said innocently. Thor scratched at his golden hair. “But why would that make you wish to leave home? If my mother were with child, I would—”

“She is not my mother,” Loki corrected sharply. “She is the new queen, not my mother.”

Thor shrugged this off. “Still, why should that make you wish to leave?”

Loki clenched his hands in an effort to stop them from trembling so violently. He did not quite know how to explain this to Thor without speaking of fear, and he did not want Thor to know that he was afraid. _My father will have no use for me now…_

Thor, however, took his silence as a refusal to answer. He began hotly, “If you are going to say that this is another question, and I must read another story, by the Norns—”

“No, no, I am merely contemplating my answer!” Loki said hastily, swallowing down his panic, for Thor had risen as if to leave. Then it dawned on Loki. _It is not merely attention you want, it is_ his. Whenever Odin or one the guards tried to speak to him, he wished them gone, no matter how mildly they spoke to him. But Thor—he was desperate for Thor to stay. Perhaps it was his harmless prattling, perhaps it was his predictability, but for whatever reason, Thor’s presence made him feel at ease. Safe.

“My stepmother is not fond of me, because I am not hers,” Loki started. ( _And because you are a worthless reminder of everything that went wrong_.) “But now she will have her own, so—”

“So you are worried the new baby will get all the attention?” Thor finished with a bark of laughter. “That is what happened to my friend Fandral when his little sister was born.”

“Something like that,” Loki said with a weak smile, relieved that Thor had inadvertently spared him from a real answer. “Do you have another question for me?” he added, hoping to divert his thoughts elsewhere.

“Hmm…” Thor scrunched his forehead in concentration, looking distastefully at the books beside him. It was not difficult for Loki to deduce that Thor was bored with reading.

“Loki, will you tell me a story from Jotunheim?” Thor asked suddenly.

His sudden interest took Loki aback; until this point, the prince of Asgard had seemed to regard his own as the only realm worth knowing about. At Loki’s hesitation, Thor cocked his head to the side curiously and prompted, “Do you not tell stories in Jotunheim?”

“Of course we do,” Loki snapped.

The trouble was, he did not know very many. Like everyone else, he had entered the temple every year for the Solstice Festival, where Jotunheim’s history and legends were carved into the walls and pillars. But Utgard’s temple was ancient—the earlier stories were recorded in the Old Tongue, which was written in pictographs, and which Loki could neither read nor speak. The Jotuns’ original language had died away with the arrival of the Æsir and their Allspeak—it was more efficient for trade and diplomacy, after all, to have a common tongue throughout the Nine Realms—and there were now but a few scholars left with any comprehension of it at all.

Thus, Loki had been reduced to unraveling the stories from the illustrations in bas-relief. No one bothered to explain them to him. Remembering one of the larger, more decipherable images, he began, “In the earliest days of our realm, it was not always winter. We had warm summers and abundant harvests, just as you do.”

Thor’s eyebrows lifted. Evidently, it was just as strange a thought to him as it was to Loki, that Jotunheim could ever have been anything but the land of eternal snow.

“But Ymir, the first giant”—Loki had recognized him in the carving because he was depicted everywhere in Jotun art—“predicted that a great and terrible winter was coming to envelop Jotunheim until the end of time. His descendants begged him to help them—after all, had he given them life only to abandon them to a slow death?”

Loki remembered that this panel, of desperate supplicants raising their hands, had made him shiver with its eerie similarity to the atmosphere in the temple. “Ymir realized that he had no way to save his children, nothing left to give them, except his life. So he carved out his own heart and placed it in a casket in the very center of the realm. Each beat of his heart would be felt throughout Jotunheim. His spirit would reside in all things; his life would sustain ours.”

Thor’s mouth had fallen open. At first, Loki thought the story had horrified him, but then Thor said in an awestruck voice, “He carved his own heart out?”

 _Of course the carnage would captivate him_ , Loki thought exasperatedly, rolling his eyes. “Yes, and the blood that spilled from him formed two great rivers, Ædar and Slagӕd, that run across the entire realm. Ymir’s corpse formed the landscape where he fell, his bones eventually covered by earth and snow, his ribs becoming the Bein Risastór mountain range near Utgard.”

Thor absorbed this in amazed silence. Loki had not expected him to be so enthralled by the peculiar legend but—he thought with some smugness, it was satisfying to have impressed him for once.

“And he put his heart in a casket?”

“Yes,” said Loki slowly, “it is called the—”

“Casket of Ancient Winters!” Thor finished with relish. His eyes were wide and gleaming with fascination. “So that blue box in the Weapons Vault truly has a giant’s heart in it?” he asked, in a voice equally disgusted and thrilled.

“Well, it is only a story,” Loki said quickly. He did not want the Æsir to think him utterly superstitious. “No doubt, it is a simply a way our culture explained a magical artifact of mysterious origin. I am sure Ymir created it—perhaps ‘putting his heart into it’ was meant to be a metaphor for his sacrifice for the realm; perhaps whatever magic he performed to create the casket did in fact sap him of life—”

Thor overrode him. “That was a good tale,” he said, sounding impatient and ignoring Loki’s critical interpretation, for the more literal, violent version was obviously more to his liking. “He gave his life for his people, as a true king should.”

 _He…he approves? He is not jesting?_ Loki’s voice was stolen for a moment.

Thor, smiling eagerly at him, asked, “Do you know any others?"

Loki bit his lip. As much as he would have like to remain unconcerned about any Æsir’s opinion of him, he and Thor had momentarily found some middle ground, and Loki suddenly realized he did not want to lose it.

“I…I could tell you about the Great Flood,” Loki said hesitantly. Thor perked up at these words—obviously his enjoyment of destruction extended to natural disasters—but this made Loki squirm. What if Thor did not enjoy this one as much? Would he go back to despising him as usual? Would he still return and talk to Loki tomorrow?

Fortunately or unfortunately, they did not have the chance to find out: the clanking of armor announced the approach of a guard.

“My prince, the queen summons you to her chambers,” the guard said with a bow.

Thor’s shoulders slumped. “Now?” he groaned.

“I have been instructed to escort you, my prince. She was quite insistent.”

Thor turned to Loki with a glum expression. “My mother is asking for me,” he said with a long-suffering sigh. “I must go. But…do not forget, you must tell me that story when I return.”

Loki smirked. “I will wait here, then,” he deadpanned. But as Thor gave a small wave of farewell and an earnest smile, a fragile bubble of hope was building up inside Loki.


	7. Chapter 7

“Thor, where have you been?”

As Frigga watched her son be steered into her sitting room by the Einherjar, she posed this question in a falsely sweet tone. She saw Thor gulp—he knew this was the calm before the storm. A mother’s anger, born of worry, is the most dangerous of all.

When it seemed Thor was not going to reply, the guard began to explain, “My Lady, he was—”

She held up a hand to stop him. “No need. He was in the dungeon, was he not?”

The guard affirmed her conclusion. She dismissed him before rounding on Thor, who squirmed under her glare.

“You knew full well it was wrong, you are already being punished for it, so why in Bor’s name did you _repeat_ it?”

“Father asked me to!”

Frigga raised her eyebrows skeptically.

“He did!” Thor insisted hotly.

“Thor, I highly doubt your father would ask you to visit the dungeons,” Frigga sighed, rubbing her temples in frustration. It was not like her son to lie, though, so she would give him the benefit of the doubt. Willful ignorance was more characteristic for him than outright deceit. “You must have somehow misunderstood him.”

Thor’s fists curled at his sides in indignation. “Father _told_ me to visit Loki—”

“Loki?”

"The Frost Giant,” he explained impatiently.

“You were talking to Laufey’s son?”

It took all of Frigga’s composure to refrain from groaning aloud in vexation.

“He’s not frightening at all, Mother,” Thor assured her earnestly. “He is even smaller than I am.”

He must not have understood the reason for Frigga’s stunned silence, for he continued innocently, “Is that not strange? He isn’t giant at all. He tells excellent tales, though.”

Unconsciously, she took a step back, her face falling numbly. Her mind was reeling. It had simply never _occurred_ to Frigga that the son of Laufey might not be a warrior—after all, what else would he be doing on Midgard?—but then, she had never seen the prince herself.

“Thor, how old is Loki?”

He shrugged, oblivious to her sudden disquiet. “I don’t know exactly. Younger than me, I think. Why?”

Frigga suppressed her reaction with a few deep breaths. “You have lessons to attend, my son,” she said in a clipped tone. “We will speak more on this later.”

“But I promised him I would come back,” Thor protested. “Father always says that promises are sacred, and must be kept!”

She sighed. While she was glad her son had such strict sense of honor for his age, his understanding of the virtue was childish in its rigidity, and more than a little melodramatic.

“Perhaps you will be able to visit him later,” she hedged, to placate him without conceding too much. “And if not, I’m sure your friend will understand. Now run along.”

This command was accompanied by a stern, uncompromising look that never failed to make him obey, however grudgingly.

As Thor turned away to leave, she heard him grumble, “He promised he would tell me another tale…”

* * *

Loki heard the heavy door of the dungeon open. He listened eagerly, expecting to hear Thor’s deafening footfalls and see his gold head come bobbing around the corner any moment.

Instead, all of the guards suddenly straightened up, rigidly at attention. It made Loki’s stomach turn—the unknown visitor was someone of importance. It could not be the All-Father, because the approaching footsteps were fluid, graceful, not at all like the heavy clanking of the king’s armor.

His visitor was a lady. Upon catching sight of him, she froze in place at the end of the corridor for a moment, her lips parting slightly as if something about him astonished her. But she quickly recovered and approached Loki’s cell briskly.

At her command, the energy barrier was lowered, so that nothing but empty space lay between her and Loki. He blinked a few times. Truthfully, the golden light had been uncomfortably bright, and the comparative gloom of the dungeon was a relief. But what was she doing? Who was this Æsir woman the guards showed such deference?

Much to Loki’s shock, she bent her knees, all but kneeling on the cold stone floor, her silk gown pooling around her like molten gold—so that her face was on the same level as Loki’s.

“Hello, little prince,” she said, softly, but as graciously as if he were a foreign diplomat she were welcoming to a feast. “My name is Frigga. I think you know my son, Thor?”

Asgard’s queen. Loki shuddered, recalling the stories of Asgard’s queen, the powerful sorceress. _Is it true, what my father says, that you are a witch?_ The Æsir wanted information from him; perhaps Loki had not been complying fast enough. _Have you come here to read my mind with dark magic?_ He averted his eyes in the vain hope of protecting himself.

“My son has told me about you,” continued the queen. If she was perturbed by his lack of eye contact or his silence, her tone did not indicate this. “He says that you are named Loki. May I call you that, princeling?”

Instinctively—as if her unexpectedly gentle voice had stirred some hidden reservoir of hope in him—he raised his eyes to hers. Warm blue eyes. Thor’s eyes. Staring into them, Loki felt all of his tense muscles slowly going slack, as if her mere presence was draining some of the fear from his very blood.

_Do not trust the Æsir, they are liars and they will hurt you—_

He almost clapped his hands over his ears to drown out the horrible voice, though he knew it to be only in his head.

His expression must have betrayed his misgivings, however, for the queen asked, “Are you hurt, Prince Loki?”

It seemed harmless enough to shake his head in reply.

“Please, do not be afraid,” she murmured. “I have come to take you someplace more comfortable, that is all. Would you like that?”

Her manner was kindly, beguiling, which was something Loki could not trust. Everything sweet, in his experience, was merely disguised poison. Unsure how to feel, he remained silent, studying her face suspiciously.

Her smile faded. “You will be safe, I promise.” She held out a hand to him. “Come. This is no place for a child, let alone a prince.”

He balked, knowing that Æsir skin was very delicate and could burn at his touch—but she wore gloves. Cautiously, he placed his small hand in hers, and she helped him to his feet. There seemed to be no trick. Yet.

Without releasing his hand, she led him out of the dungeons and into the palace.

Loki squinted at the sudden onslaught of stimuli: the blinding sunlight reflected on all the glistening golden surfaces, the loud echo of their own footsteps on the stone, the distant murmur of dozens of voices, the suffocating humidity of the air. At least the dungeon, cooler and dark and quiet, had better mimicked Jotunheim’s environment. This corridor, however, was empty.

“Everyone is taking their afternoon meal right now,” the queen explained. “So much the better. Court thrives on gossip, I’m afraid…”

She ducked behind a tapestry and beckoned him to follow. His mouth fell open as he realized it hid a narrow staircase. “My son tells me you are fond of stories,” she said conversationally as they climbed the stairs. “What kind do you like best?”

He stared up at her, unable to help admiring the way she could take her enemy’s child by the hand and converse with him as though there were nothing odd about it. He cleared his throat and replied, “All kinds.”

“Ah, a scholar,” she smiled. “I shall see to it that your room is stocked with books, then.”

Loki’s head was reeling. Not a week ago, he feared his father discovering his thirst for the written word, but this lady seemed quite delighted with this information. _She can’t really mean it_ , he thought, shaking himself. _If she knew how meager my learning really was, she wouldn’t be so pleased with me_.

When they came to a doorway, Frigga peered inside and declared it adequate for their purpose, and herded him inside.

Loki stood in the middle of the room uncertainly. It was easily three times the size of his cell—a guest room reserved for visiting nobility, he surmised, judging by the elegant four-poster bed, the gold brocade drapes that the queen was drawing shut, the thick fur rug under him. There was a tapestry on the wall opposite the bed depicting a gnarled tree, holding celestial bodies in its boughs instead of fruit—it took him a moment to realize that it must be Yggdrasil, because he had only ever seen it portrayed in Jotunheim’s more angular, impressionistic art style. Thankfully, there was no fire in the hearth.

“I’m afraid it is not entirely suitable for a child—the bed is a bit oversized for you,” said the queen apologetically, “but the old nursery is in the east wing, which gets quite warm with all the sunlight, so I think you will be more at ease here.”

Loki, not immediately comprehending, said slowly, “I am…I am staying here?”

Again the queen bent down to speak on his level. Her eyes were kind; her smile was sad. “I am very sorry for the way you have been treated so far, Prince Loki. From now on, I will be looking after you, until we can get you safely back to your family.”

Loki shuddered. It was strange to hear such a terrible promise uttered with such harmless intentions.

“Everything will be alright, little prince,” she said; “you are safe here.”

Her tone made it sound like a promise. He was still unsure if he believed her words, but he believed she meant no harm. When he nodded reluctantly, her smile became more genuine. Straightening up, she said briskly, “Now, would you like something to eat? You look hungry.”

“I—I have already been given the afternoon meal, My Lady, but I thank you,” he stammered.

“I know that, but are you still hungry? It would be no trouble to send for a tray.”

Truthfully, while he had not had much of an appetite in the dungeon, he was suddenly feeling faint with hunger. She seemed to correctly interpret his hesitancy, for she prodded, “What do you like to eat at home, Loki? We may not have precisely the same food, but there might be something familiar I can give you.”

He shrugged helplessly.

“Do you like sweet things? My son does. He loves to pretend that he’s a great warrior that can survive off meat and cheese, but in reality”—she lowered her voice conspiratorially, as if divulging a secret joke—“he has a great weakness for strawberry jam. He usually likes to have more jam than bread.”

Loki frowned. “I do not—we do not have this in my realm. What is it?”

“You must try some, then,” said the queen. “Some jam and bread, perhaps some stew—do you eat that?” Loki nodded. “Very well. We must get you another change of clothes as well, if you may be here for some time. Let’s see…Thor’s clothes will be far too big for you, of course, but they could easily be taken in—or perhaps one of the nobles has a child your size…” She seemed to be thinking aloud to herself, ticking off a mental list.

“You need not go to such trouble, My Lady,” Loki said, fidgeting. Her solicitousness towards him was so unfamiliar that he was not equipped to react to it. No one showed such concern for a runt’s welfare, after all—and why should a queen lower herself so?

“Nonsense. We made you our responsibility by taking you; the least we can do is to look after you properly,” Frigga said firmly, in a way that forbade any dissension. “It is not your doing that you were born into the other side of this war, any more than Thor is responsible for the father he has. You are children, that is all.”

There was no lie in her face, in her voice that Loki could detect. The queen was not as transparent with her emotions as Thor, but she exuded warmth and reassurance in a similar way. And—just as Loki felt whenever he was around Thor—the anxious knot in his stomach began to unclench.

“Now,” said the queen, moving towards the door, “while I send for some food and fresh clothes, I’ll have the chambermaid draw up a bath for you. Don’t worry, I’ll be back shortly.”

Loki had to grit his teeth together to prevent a childish plea from slipping out as she closed the door behind her.

_Don’t leave me alone, please! Don’t go…_

* * *

Meanwhile in the library, Thor could barely keep himself awake, let alone concentrate on his lessons. He was supposed to be reading along, but his tutor’s voice was monotone and there were no pictures in this text, so his mind drifted sleepily. He had not absorbed a single concept from his economics lesson, as if it were so dull that it simply could not penetrate the bored haze surrounding him. After going over the same problem three times without much success, his teacher had finally given up and moved on to history.

The worst part was that he had just told Loki this very story about the Æsir-Vanir War—but his teacher was doing it all wrong, turning what should have been a ballad of glorious heroism and tragedy into a dry collection of facts and figures. Thor yawned. He found himself longing for the cool, hard floor of the dungeons and his peculiar friend. Loki, at least, could spin an exciting tale.

Thor froze. Had he really just thought of the Jotun prince as his _friend?_ Was that even possible? Intermediate words like _acquaintance_ were not generally a part of Thor’s vocabulary: one was either an ally or a foe. But, as infuriating and tricky as Loki could be, he had ceased to fulfill the role of enemy to Thor—so what was he, then?

He did not like how confused this made him feel, so he tried to shake himself out of his abstraction and hear the schoolmaster’s lesson for a moment.

His tutor’s voice droned, “…the terms of the treaty included an exchange of hostages, as an offering of friendship between the realms…”

Thor knew this already. Many members of Father’s council were Vanir, in order to make sure the sister realm’s interests were heard. Thor’s friend Hogun lived here in Asgard because his grandfather had been a part of this exchange. But it had never occurred to Thor that this war was not ancient history, since anything outside of his lifetime seemed that way.

“…after the assassination of Mimir, the Council of Vanaheim—”

“Master Haldor?” Thor interrupted. “You are from Vanaheim, aren’t you?”

“Yes, my prince,” answered the tutor, used to such abruptness from his blunt pupil. “Now, as I was saying—”

Thor looked up from the history tome, twirling the small braid above his left ear. “But the Æsir and Vanir were at war with each other once.”

“That was a long time ago, my prince,” Master Haldor said with a faint smile, “long before you were born.”

Thor could not contain the excitement rising in his voice. “So the Æsir and Vanir used to hate each other a long time ago, but they are friends now?”

“Well, that’s putting it rather simplistically, but yes, relations between Vanaheim and Asgard are fairly amicable now, thanks in large part to your father.”

Thor hesitated before asking the next question that burned on his lips, wriggling a little in his hard wooden seat. “Master Haldor, what about the Frost Giants?”

The tutor goggled at him. “What about them, my prince?” he asked delicately.

“Well, they are our enemies now,” Thor elaborated, “but do you think someday we might become allies with them, as with the Vanir? Do you think we might be able to forget all about the wars?”

Master Haldor appeared truly flustered by this question, and by the innocent, expectant blue eyes trained on him. Thor supposed it seemed unusual coming from the usually-militant crown prince, but he was too impatient for the answer to feel embarrassed.

Finally, the scholar threw back his head and laughed. “My prince, what a strange idea to have!” he said indulgently, resting a hand lightly on Thor’s gold hair. “Where ever did you get it from?”

“I just thought, if we could be friends with the Vanir after being at war with them, why—”

“I assure you, the situations are entirely different. The peoples of Asgard and Vanaheim were once a single race. The realm of Vanaheim was colonized, and the long separation between the tribes resulted in the cultural differences that can be observed to this day. However, we are still more alike than we are different,” he added with a knowing smile. “We merely needed some reminding of that, when we were at war. But the Frost Giants…well, they are too different, my prince, for us to understand one another.”

“Oh.” Thor kicked at the rungs of his chair discontentedly.

“Is there a reason behind all these questions, my prince?” Master Haldor asked. “Not that I am one to complain about your sudden interest in history and politics, of course, but it seems rather unlike you.”

Thor tried very hard to keep Loki out of his mind—fearful that somehow the truth would show on his face, or that Master Haldor could pluck the thought from his mind with his piercing stare—as he mumbled, “I was just curious.”

His tutor raised his eyebrows as he pulled out a heavy mathematics text, unconvinced but not pressing the matter. “Very well, then, let us turn to trigonometry for a while.”

Thor groaned. As if this evening had not been excruciating enough already.

* * *

Odin had still been holed up with his war council discussing strategy when Frigga passed by his study—but no matter. She was determined to prioritize, and save the expression of her emotions for when it was appropriate: right now, while Loki needed her, her indignation could fuel action. Later, she would allow Odin to feel her wrath, but she would put that aside for now.

When Frigga returned to the guest room, the page boy she had sent to the kitchens for Loki’s meal was waiting outside the room with the tray, as she had directed. The fewer people knew about their Jotun hostage, the better—and she did not want to crowd Loki with too many strangers. She took the meal inside herself, and found the prince sitting, quiet and still, at the small table in his room.

Frigga studied the child. His black hair, still damp from his bath, hung lank around his face, the ends a little jagged, as if he had trimmed it himself, and not too recently. She had given him some of Thor’s clothes (inelegantly shrunk down a few sizes with magic so that he would not be swimming in fabric). But before that, he had not been dressed typically for his realm—in fact, if she had to hazard a guess, she would say the ill-fitting tunic and breeches were from Midgard. Though she was not terribly familiar with Jotun physiology, she could see that he was scrawny for his age, underfed. In short, everything about his appearance spoke of neglect.

He must have noticed her intense scrutiny and felt uncomfortable, for he would not hold eye contact with her. Eyes the color of blood. Her first glimpse of them, admittedly, she had been a little startled by their strangeness—a moment later, she felt ashamed of herself. _Jotuns are no monsters. If they are a harsh people, it is only because their environment has forced them to be so_ , she told herself.

While she truly held this belief, there was still a part of her that thought of Frost Giants as _other_. But this was a child—a scared, shivering, bright-eyed child—and there was nothing foreign or incomprehensible about that. Frigga was a queen, bound to serve her realm, but she was a mother first. She would not pitilessly watch a child suffer, regardless of his parentage.

She nudged the tray of food across the table towards him, but Loki did not move. It was an excessive amount for such a little boy, but she had not known exactly what a prince of Jotunheim would like to eat, and so had sent for a little bit of everything the kitchens had on hand: fresh-baked bread, blackberry jam, mutton, salted herrings, mushrooms, parsnips, nettle stew, a flask of elderberry wine. Hopefully something there would be agreeable to him.

Loki stared at the tray, mesmerized—his eyes gleamed with obvious hunger—but something seemed to be holding him back. He wrung his thin hands.

“Go on, it’s for you,” she prompted. But when their eyes met again, he looked so nervous, so skittish, that she realized what the problem was. “I have not done anything to it, Loki. I promise. I simply want you to have enough to eat, that’s all.”

Tentatively, he started to reach for the food, but drew his hand back. _Is he so afraid I would poison him? The poor dear must be terrified here_. Another thought quickly followed, with a swell of fury: _Has Odin done nothing to alleviate his fear?_

Frigga shook herself, gritting her teeth. _Prioritize. The child needs you first, and then you may deal with Odin accordingly_.

She took the ladle from the tureen of stew and brought it to her lips. Loki watched her warily as she took a sip.

“You see? Nothing has happened to me, because there is no potion or poison,” she said gently. “Now you try.”

Conflict flickered across his face, but apparently her taste-test had won him over.

As Frigga watched him eat, she realized the boy wolfed down everything in reach as if it might be his last opportunity, as if he expected it to be taken away any minute. It was heartbreaking to think that a child his age could have such a fear. Glancing up at her, he froze, swallowing a tremendous mouthful guiltily. With self-conscious deliberation, he began to use his knife and fork slowly and delicately, his entire body visibly tensed as if for a reprimand.

“It’s alright, eat, you’re evidently hungry,” Frigga reassured him. “We are not in court, little prince; there is no one you need impress.”

His body relaxed somewhat, but he still cast hesitant glances at her when he must have thought she wasn’t looking, and he still ate cautiously and primly. She took a piece of bread from his tray and smothered it in honey—just as her mother had often done for her, millennia ago—and offered it to the boy. Frowning at the sticky substance, as if he had never seen anything like it before, he caught a drop on his fingertip and tasted it warily. To Frigga’s satisfaction, his eyes lit up.

“Do you like it, princeling?”

He nodded vigorously. A smile—timid but genuine—crept across his face, and she returned it warmly. Loki broke from her gaze shyly after a moment and resumed eating, but still, Frigga thought, it was progress.


	8. Chapter 8

Frigga allowed the door to Odin’s study to close behind her with a snap. This was not her habit, but she wanted him to sense her dangerous mood, and indeed, it provoked the desired response: he lifted his head up from the map he was studying, and warily took in her crossed arms and blazing eyes.

“My queen,” he greeted her carefully.

“I met our Jotun guest today,” she said through gritted teeth. “I thought you ought to know that I have moved him somewhere more suitable until he can be returned to his home.”

“Ah,” he said. He seemed to be bracing himself for the inevitable storm, which gave Frigga some satisfaction. _Well, how does he expect to justify this?_

“A child, Odin. You neglected to mention that the son of Laufey is a _small child_.”

Odin sighed and pushed his chair away from the table so that he faced her completely. “My dear, you are being irrational.”

“ _Irrational?_ ” she repeated incredulously, her voice rising a few octaves. “ _My_ reaction is unreasonable, but it is entirely appropriate for you to throw a little boy into a cell next to murderers and traitors?”

“The dungeons are the safest place in Asgard. What would you have me do?”

Frigga inhaled sharply, trying to modulate her tone and approach this rationally. She would not allow her concerns to be discredited simply because she expressed them with more emotion than reason. “Usually, I make a concentrated effort to stand behind my king and trust your judgment,” she said, in a voice that was soft but trembling with ire, “but this indecent and you know it.”

To her annoyance, her reproach seemed not to affect him. “Jotunheim is a realm of cold and darkness,” he responded calmly. “Frost Giants are not very well adapted to our environment, so I placed him in the closest imitation of his own that I could. Where is the indecency?”

“You did not have to take him at all!”

Odin stood, finally incensed, but Frigga did not flinch—she was, after all, still several inches taller than he, and not remotely intimidated.

“Frigga, he was alone and wounded in the middle of a war zone,” he growled. “Would you have preferred me to leave him there?”

“And your intentions were purely altruistic, I’m sure,” she scoffed.

“I thought to accomplish several things at once, is that so terrible?”

“Using a child for political gain? In fact, while we are on that subject,” she added, her voice dripping with sarcasm, “I rather thought our son was a little young for diplomatic duties, but then, what do I know?”

“Frigga…”

“I suppose I should not be surprised that you would use your enemy’s son, but your own flesh and blood?” She shook her head. “They are children, Odin. This is not their war. Is our duty as parents not to protect children trusted to our care?”

His face darkened. “Yes, I am a father,” he said softly. “And there are days when I wish I could merely be that. But I am a king as well, Frigga. I have to use people—yes, even those I love—for the greater good.”

Frigga pursed her lips and resisted the urge to counter with, _Even me, my love?_ For she did not want to hear the answer. They had married for love, but the day he proposed, Odin had made it perfectly clear that he was choosing a suitable partner in ruling Asgard every bit as much as he was asking to spend the rest of his days with her.

“Besides, I do not think Thor has found his task so disagreeable after all,” said Odin. Loudly, he added, “Isn’t that right, Thor?”

Their son emerged from the hallway with a sheepish expression. “I did not mean to listen,” Thor explained; “I came here to ask you a question, Father, but then I heard shouting…”

Frigga felt a pang of guilt. While she and Odin certainly had their quarrels, they were always so careful about keeping them out of Thor’s earshot—her own parents had argued fiercely when she was a child, which had frightened her, and she had resolved to never do the same.

“We were just having a discussion,” she assured him, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Your father and I still love each other dearly…even when he is in the wrong.”

“Indeed,” Odin said, glaring at her, unamused. “Your mother is usually generous enough to forgive me after a few days.”

Frigga rolled her eyes. “We are sorry you heard us, Thor,” she said, “but do not worry. All is well.”

Thor looked back and forth between them. "I know you are still fighting," he mumbled. His sulky expression suggested that he preferred their louder, more upfront method of conflict..

Frigga blinked a few times. It was easy to forget that Thor had his own kind of perceptiveness—while he was obtuse, his simplicity sometimes allowed him to see past pretensions to the heart of the truth.

Odin chuckled, disarmed by his son’s comment, and asked, “Why did you want to see me, Thor?”

Thor twisted the hem of his tunic. “I just wanted to ask…has Loki gone back to Jotunheim?”

Odin seemed to be studying his son very intently. “No, Thor. He is still in Asgard.”

“I went to his cell and he was gone, so I just wondered…”

“Your mother”—Odin threw a pointed glance at her—“has seen fit to remove him from the dungeons.”

Unabashed, Frigga added in a falsely light tone, “Which, given a queen’s duty to oversee accommodations for foreign guests, I had every authority to do.”

Odin raised an eyebrow but otherwise ignored her.

“Can I see him?” Thor asked, straightening up eagerly.

Frigga exchanged a look of surprise with her husband.

“It’s getting late, Thor,” Frigga said slowly, “you ought to be in bed.”

Thor’s shoulders slumped. “It’s just that…there was a story he wanted to tell me.”

Though Thor preferred simple communication, there was something underneath _his_ words now, as if he did not quite know how to say it. Yesterday, she would never have believed it if someone said her son would befriend a Frost Giant, she thought, a little dazed.

Yet was it so surprising? Thor was a combative boy, yes, but hatred was more difficult for him than kindness.

“You can go and play with him tomorrow, after your lessons. I will show you then what room he is staying in,” she decided.

“Thank you, Mother,” Thor said, his face suddenly bright. He bid them a hasty goodnight and bounded out of the room.

There was a moment of silence.

“Do you see now, Frigga?” Odin said quietly. “There may not be much hope for reconciliation for our generation. It’s too late for that. There is far too much bitterness and blood between Asgard and Jotunheim. But _their_ generation…”

“You cannot possibly have planned for this from the moment you captured Loki,” she scoffed.

His lips twitched. “Perhaps not, but as soon as the possibility occurred to me, I did hope that they could learn from each other.” He reached for her hand. She did not respond to his touch, but she did not shake out of his grasp, either. “Thor will be king someday, and so we must always remember we are not just raising a child, but shaping Asgard’s future. And you know as well as I do that Thor learns more effectively from experience than from instruction.”

 _You are still using them both, even if for a good purpose_ , she thought. That still troubled her, though it did not surprise her: it was in her husband’s nature to take advantage of every situation, and she had always known that.

“I acknowledge that your point is compelling,” she said stiffly. “But that does not mean I have to agree with your methods.”

Her anger was abating somewhat. But Odin was still sleeping on the sofa tonight.

* * *

It was late. Loki had extinguished his candle hours ago, intending to go to bed, but his mind had not stopped racing long enough. The queen had left a tall stack of library books in the room, and he thought reading might help him fall asleep, but he had no light now and the chamber was very dark.

He slid off the bed—for all that Frigga had fretted that it was oversized, Loki was used to living in a world far too big for him—crept to the window, and pulled back the drapes to peer at the city outside. He had tried to look this afternoon, but had been blinded by the sunlight and the golden gleam of the buildings. Now, with the metallic city muted by the darkness and blanketed in sleep, he could look as long as he wanted.

 _This city makes no sense_ , he noted critically; completely haphazard. It sprawled chaotically in all directions from the palace. Jotunheim’s great cities were designed to align with constellations and planets.

The streets were mostly empty now at this late hour. Occasionally a lonely skiff glided through the air. Still, it was more activity than he saw in the daytime out his tower window back home. In Asgard, it seemed there was so much life that it could not be contained. Courtyards overflowed with greenery. Fountains bubbled in the plaza below his window. Waterfalls spilled into the sea. A row of snowy peaks cut off the horizon, but they could not compare to the forbidding, craggy mountains of Jotunheim.

Utgard was, by comparison, a graveyard. There, the snow usually fell so relentlessly that he could only dimly glimpse the shadowy outlines of the herds of snow oxen grazing in the plains just outside the city ruins, and the jagged, black silhouette of the pines just beyond that. Everything at home was stillness and a sorrowful silence.

Suddenly, he heard a soft click—someone was unlocking the door. Heart pounding, he leapt back into bed and feigned sleep. He didn’t know if anyone would be angry at his being up so late, but he was not about to risk it.

Loki knew it was the queen from the rustling of her gown. He kept his eyes shut and his breathing convincingly deep and even, listening. He heard the shades drawing shut again, and her soft footsteps to his bedside.

Gently, very gently, so as not to wake him, she lifted his head up and placed one of the eiderdown pillows beneath it.


	9. Chapter 9

Frigga woke to the first hints of dawn peering through the curtains, and to the sound of her husband stirring from his makeshift bed on the sofa across the room. She yawned and rolled over, intending not to acknowledge him—she was, after all, still smarting from their spat and still rather ambivalent about his actions. But, seeing that she was awake, he approached her cautiously and sat on the edge of the bed.

“Frigga.”

She smirked in satisfaction, hearing some hesitancy in his voice.

“My king,” she acknowledged him coolly, sitting up.

“I return to Midgard today,” Odin reminded her.

Frigga made a noncommittal sound.

“I cannot say when I will next see Asgard,” he added.

_Subtle, dear. Very subtle. Of course, you cannot simply swallow your pride and say you will miss me._

She sighed. In times of war, she did not have the luxury of stewing in anger. She could not let her last words to him be bitter, not when he could be wounded or killed in combat before they could reconcile.

Grudgingly, she leaned over and kissed him—if not passionately, at least sincerely. He held her and smoothed her long hair.

“Do not think this means I am finished being cross with you,” she assured him.

“Understood.”

“Come back to me safely, and _then_ we may resume our quarrel.”

“I look forward to it,” he said dryly, and then they parted.

* * *

 

The queen brought Loki his morning meal and ate with him. As before, she spoke gently to him and tried not to startle him with any sudden moves, but he was too shy to speak very much. He wondered if she had told the cooks to send up the pastries drizzled in honey specifically because he liked it—for some reason, this thought made him feel as if he had a lump in his throat.

When their plates were cleared, the queen said she could not stay, but that she would return to check on him in the afternoon, and that if he needed anything, he should not hesitate to ask.

Timidly, he ventured, “My lady, is—is Thor ever coming back?”

_You sound so desperate_ , he scolded himself. _As if she needed another reason to mock you._

But Frigga smiled. “My son has lessons to attend in the morning. But after lunch, I’m sure he will come. In fact, he _asked_ if he could see you.”

Loki absorbed this information in a daze. _He_ wants _to see me? Thor wants to be around me, even though he does not have to?_

For the rest of the morning, he tried to read his library books, but thoughts kept wandering in circles—disbelief, then fragile joy, followed by crushing doubt—to the point that the words blurred on the page and his insides were tangled in knots.

At long last, there was a knock on the door.

“Loki,” sang a familiar voice. “Can I come in?”

Thor’s mother accompanied him. She unlocked the door, and the prince of Asgard all but vaulted inside.

“Hello,” Thor greeted him brightly.

“Hello, Thor,” Loki returned, both amused and slightly puzzled by his enthusiasm.

The two princes stood in the middle of the room staring at each other for a moment, unsure what to do now that there was no longer a cell wall between them.

“You boys have a nice afternoon,” said Frigga, starting to back out the room as if trying not to hinder their interaction with her presence. “I will be back in the evening with some supper. Don’t get into any trouble now, Thor.”

“Yes, Mother.”

As soon as the door shut, Thor sat cross-legged on the rug, and Loki followed his example.

“So, will you tell me that story, Loki? The one about the Great Flood?”

“If you—if you want me to,” Loki said.

He cleared his throat nervously. It was a simple story, really, but Thor seemed so eager to hear it and Loki would hate to disappoint him—now when they had finally reached a more comfortable truce—so he decided to invent details to fill in the gaps of his knowledge. After all, Thor would not know the difference.

“A few generations after Ymir,” he began, “the population had grown so much that people began to settle in cities. Ymir’s grandchildren went from wandering hunters to herders that stayed in one place—”

“Herders of what?” Thor interrupted.

“Snow oxen,” Loki explained impatiently. When Thor still looked confused, Loki added, “Long white hair, curly horns, tusks…rather dim-witted creatures that eat everything in their paths…you do not have these in Asgard?”

“No,” laughed Thor, “though they sound quite a strange sight. I never realized Frost Giants raised animals.”

“What did you think we lived off of? Snow?”

“Um…” Thor turned pink.

Loki gave him a withering look. “We do eat _food,_ you know.  May I continue now?”

“Sorry,” Thor said with a slightly sheepish grin. “Keep telling the story.”

“Very well. As I was saying, people began to settle in one place. But property and ownership also meant that some people had more than others, and this sowed greed and envy in Jotuns’ hearts. Wickedness increased. Neighbors stole from neighbors. Brother competed against brother, and longed for what he had. Sons killed their fathers for their inheritance.”

Thor was leaning forward, obviously intrigued. Loki lowered his voice to a dramatic whisper.

“Then one day, disaster struck. Some said the magic of the Casket failed. Others said Ymir was angry with his children, and his spirit was punishing them for their wickedness. Whatever the cause, Jotunheim’s climate suddenly began to warm, and the great glaciers surrounding the capital began to melt.”

Thor frowned, puzzled. “But isn’t that a good thing? That the ice was going away?”

“But it did _not_ go away,” Loki said grimly. “There was so much snow that when it melted, the water had nowhere to go, and formed a sea in what was once a valley. The city was flooded, and all its thousands of people swept away.”

“They all died?” Thor asked in a hushed voice.

 “Every man, woman, and child,” emphasized Loki. He was drawing out the story and embellishing it some, reveling in Thor’s rapt attention. “Except for one poor herdsman named Bergelmir, who had lived in a cave high up in the mountains with his family, high enough that the water did not reach them. Some say Ymir spared them because Bergelmir was just and humble, honored his ancestors and was content with what he had. He and his wife and his brother prayed for the cold to return, and in time it did. They emerged from the cave and founded a new capital atop the ruins of the old. And now we call it Utgard.”

Thor’s eyes widened. “You mean, there’s a frozen city underneath where you live?”

Loki nodded.

“Bergelmir’s five children would found the five great clans of Jotunheim, and they scattered across the realm. Only the eldest stayed to rule Utgard, as her descendants have ever since. See, that is what these markings mean”—he gestured to the lines on his face—“that I am of the first queen’s bloodline. And these tell my mother’s house,” he added, indicating the patterns on his arms.

Thor studied them curiously. “I always wondered what they were for.”

Before Loki realized what he was doing, Thor reached out and touched his index finger to Loki’s exposed wrist. Immediately, Thor yelped and jerked back. He cradled his hand against his body, but Loki still glimpsed his fingertip blackening with frostbite already.

“What did you do that for?” Loki demanded, his voice higher than usual.

“I just wanted to know what it would feel like,” grumbled Thor, his face contorted with pain. “I was curious.”

Thor’s words were casual, but his eyes were glassy with unshed tears.

“You are an _idiot_ ,” Loki snapped. Panic trickled like ice through his veins. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew his anger was really fear—but if he did not blame Thor, he would have to confront his own guilt and horror.  

“I can repair it, Thor,” he said, “if you let me see it. I—I have a little magic.”

It amazed Loki that, mere moments after Thor had been burned, he extended his hand once again in undeserved trust. The golden prince obviously did not learn.

Loki did not touch Thor’s hand again. Instead, he closed his eyes and imagined the deadened tissue springing to life, blood flowing through the vessels, a rosy hue overtaking the hideous grey. He imagined energy flowing from his body to warm Thor’s.

_Please be alright, please be alright, please do not be hurt…_

When he opened his eyes, he sighed in relief—it was working—golden threads of magic passed from his hand to Thor’s, and slowly, ever so slowly, the blackened spot turned red.

Loki broke the magic connection, feeling light-headed. Fortunately, the frostbitten patch had been small, or else he may not have been able to heal it himself. It was a simple, clumsy enchantment, but he had no proper training, just a fragment of a spell book that he had nearly memorized.

Thor’s mouth fell open in awe as he studied his newly-regenerated flesh.

“Where did you learn to do that?”

“I…taught myself,” Loki mumbled, averting his eyes. Of course he had had to learn a healing spell to knit skin back together, to clear the blood away from a bruise, even if it drained his energy. He could not ask the royal physicians for help—it was his own fault for being so small and weak and fragile, it was his own fault for igniting Father’s temper—

“It does not even hurt anymore,” said Thor, grinning. His amazed tone morphed into something gentler. “Do not be worried, Loki. It’s as if it was never burned at all.”

_Why should_ he _reassure_ me _? I am the one that burned him. My very nature is harmful to him._

And then Father’s voice added, _See what you have done, simply by being? Your mere existence ruins others. You thought you could befriend this creature, and you repay him with pain—_

Loki realized there was a tear running down his face. Mortified, he swiped it away. But he could not restrain himself from asking a fearful question.

“Do you hate me now, Thor?”

“Of course not. It was my own fault,” said Thor with an untroubled laugh. “Besides, your magic healed it.”

Carefully, Thor put a hand on Loki’s shoulder, where several layers of cloth would protect his skin from the cold. Loki trembled. No one had ever shown him a gesture of goodwill in this way. They remained that way for a moment—Loki hardly daring to breathe, as if he might do something wrong and scare Thor away.

_Why is he doing this? Why is he being kind after I hurt him? Why should he want to be around me at all?_

“It’s alright, Loki,” Thor said earnestly. “I’m tough. It takes more than that to hurt me.”

Loki smiled weakly. It was difficult to resist Thor’s sunny attitude, especially when that warmth was being directed at _him_.  The anxious knot in his stomach began to uncurl.

Suddenly, Thor gasped theatrically—making Loki jump—and looked around himself in feigned alarm. “Look! The water is rising. We must move to higher ground!”

Loki goggled at him. “What are you _talking_ about, Thor? There’s no water in here.”

“Yes there is, _brother_ ,” Thor emphasized slowly, “and my name is not Thor, it’s Bergelmir. We must move quickly before all the ice is melted. Our family might be the only one left in Jotunheim.”

Catching on, Loki started to smile. He had invented plenty of imaginary playmates by himself, pretended to be other people, and created worlds of his own to inhabit, but he had not realized that Asgardian children did the same thing.

“Of course,” Loki agreed, “the flood is coming. Look, it’s almost to your knees.”

Thor pointed to the bed. “We must travel up that mountain to find shelter!”

Loki snickered. “Such a perilous journey, yes.”

“But look—now a vicious snow beast stands in our way.” Thor took one of the wooden chairs from the table and brandished it as if staving off a wild animal. “Do not fear, brother, I will fight it off for you!”

Loki rolled his eyes. “Those do not live in the mountains, Thor—sorry, _Bergelmir_.”

“This one is trying to escape the water, like us.”

“I see.”         

* * *

 

When Frigga returned at suppertime, she was startled to see that the boys had constructed some kind of fortress out of bed sheets, and were huddled inside, whispering.

“Thor, Loki, I hope your adventures have given you an appetite, because it is suppertime,” she said.

“I am not Thor,” came her son’s muffled voice from inside. “I am Bergelmir the giant! My brother and I are hiding in this cave until the terrible flood is over. What sort of creature are you, fair maiden, that you can survive these deep waters?”

She chuckled, shaking her head.

“I see. Well, if Bergelmir and his brother need any rations for their cave,” she told him gravely, gesturing to the tray on the table, “there is an island here with abundant food that might be reached by boat.”

Inside the tent, she distinctly heard a sound that made her heart light. It was a timid, soft sound, but unmistakable: Loki _laughed_.


	10. Chapter 10

Loki should have known it was too good to last. That night, he awoke from the same familiar nightmare—feeling an invisible hand crushing his throat—and sat up in bed, gasping for breath. It was as if the glimmer of happiness he had felt this afternoon had been a mistake that the universe was now trying to correct.

Yet something was different tonight. As Loki took deep breaths and tried to calm his drumming heart, he did not seek out his not-memory of his mother to comfort him. Instead, he found his mind wandering to the way he had felt earlier today: the warm pressure of Thor’s hand on his shoulder, telling him everything would be alright. The sound of Thor’s infectious laughter. Frigga’s gentle encouragement. The unfamiliar sensation of a full stomach, without being made to feel guilty for it.

These memories were like points of light in his darkened room. For just a moment, they were more real to Loki than all the shame and loneliness and fear he associated with home. As if Jotunheim itself were fading into nothing more than a bad dream.

* * *

 

A few days passed in the same manner: the queen of Asgard brought Loki his meals, and saw to it that he was comfortable, and in the breaks between his lessons, Thor played games with him. It became a comforting routine. At night, Loki would pray that this would never end—he knew it was terrible, to wish the war would drag on longer, and his insides prickled with guilt for even thinking such a wicked thing. But he shuddered to think what might become of him, when he was inevitably sent back to Jotunheim.

It was not as though Ymir would listen to the prayers of a runt, anyway.

One morning, Thor, Loki, and Frigga breakfasted together in the guest quarters. Thor seemed unusually fidgety, even for him, Loki thought dryly. After a few minutes of confused and annoyed looks from Loki, Thor finally burst out what was on his mind.

“Mother, it has been a week since Father set down my punishment, has it not?”

The queen considered for a moment. “Yes, I suppose it has. You are free to go outside, Thor.”

Loki felt his heart race into a panic. _No, no, no, he is no longer confined indoors, he’s going to play with his real friends, he’s going to leave me—_

_(Everyone leaves you, Loki.)_

Thor asked hopefully, “Mother, can Loki come outside with me and play?”

Loki was speechless. He could only glance back and forth between the prince and his mother.

“Oh, Thor,” the queen sighed, biting her lip.

 _That means no_ , Loki told himself. Of course, it had been a silly thought.

“We will not make any trouble, Mother, I promise,” Thor wheedled. “It’s not as though he can run away. We won’t wander far.”

Thor’s earnest, hopeful smile seemed rather effective in swaying his mother, and for a moment Loki thought she might consent. Her eyes were torn. But the queen shook her head sadly.

“Thor, we must lock the door, not to keep Loki inside, but to keep others _out_ ,” she explained. “I know you and Loki are friends, and that makes me very happy. But not everyone in Asgard will understand.”

She turned toward Loki and added in a gentle voice, “I’m sorry, little prince. It is not that I do not trust you, but that I worry you may be hurt. With the war going on, tensions are very high indeed, and the people of Asgard will not look kindly on a Jotun.”

“Yes, My Lady, I understand,” Loki said quickly.

Thor hung his head and nodded, his buoyant mood deflated. But Thor’s disappointment sent waves of relief washing over Loki.

 _He wants me to be with him!_ And that was more than enough.

* * *

 

Frigga was, admittedly, somewhat astonished at how well the boys got along when left to their own devices. Even apart from their respective races, Thor and Loki were such opposites. Yet they simply enjoyed each other’s company. They bickered, of course, as children do, but their annoyance with each other burned out quickly, as if they found it hard to stay angry with each other for long.

From time to time, of course, there were still instances of culture clash, but it did not seem to create heated conflict. That was the wonderful thing about children, in Frigga’s opinion—they were far less set in their ways than adults, and more capable of innocent curiosity.

This evening, for example. Rain pelted the windows, leaving Thor just as trapped indoors as Loki, and so Frigga had decided to keep them busy with drawing materials. Frigga pretended to be entirely absorbed in the letters she was writing at the table, so that they would not feel inhibited by her presence, but occasionally she watched them surreptitiously.

The boys were lying on their stomachs, parchment and drawing utensils scattered about the floor. Thor scribbled indiscriminately on many pages, not caring how many mistakes he made. There were broken pieces of colored chalk, because Thor gripped them too tightly, but far from being discouraged, he was pleased by the effect of the smeared colors. Loki, on the other hand, was a timid artist. He seemed terrified of committing a single mark to his one page. There was only a faint, hesitant outline in grey that Frigga could hardly see from where she sat.

 _Is he really so afraid of making any kind of mistake?_ she wondered.

“These are my friends, Loki,” said Thor, waving a page with several crude figures on it. “I will show you, since you cannot meet them in person. This is Fandral, with the gold hair—and Hogun, he has black hair like you—and Sif. She’s a girl, but she is good at running and fighting.”

Loki stared at the pictures, oddly mesmerized, as if he had never seen anything quite like them before.

“Why are you drawing your person sideways?” Thor asked, craning his neck to squint at Loki’s progress. There was no scorn or meanness in his voice, Frigga noted with some relief, only inquisitiveness.

“That’s how most pictures are made in Jotunheim,” Loki explained in a small voice. “Everyone is looking to the side so you cannot see their entire face.”

“But why?”

Loki sat up and gathered his legs underneath him, as if to make himself appear smaller. Perhaps he was worried Thor would mock him. “Because images of living things are considered sacred. A kind of magic, almost. If you make an image of someone, a part of that person is really present in it. So lifelike images must be made with care.”

Thor seemed to be puzzling over this, scratching at his hair. Frigga had to duck her head to hide a wide smile—even a few days ago, her hotheaded son would have immediately turned his nose up at such unfamiliar ideas. But spending time with Loki had made Thor more curious, less dogmatic.

 _Odin was right about this, at least. They are learning from each other_ , she conceded.

Loki, however, must have interpreted Thor’s silence as skepticism, for he added in a nervous voice, “I know it is not this way in Asgard, I—”

Thor shrugged, unconcerned. “That is strange,” he said—again, not with malice, but childish naiveté.

Loki swallowed hard and bent his head over the paper.

“Loki,” Frigga intervened. “May I see your drawing so far?”

He clutched the page to his chest, his crimson eyes wide. “It…it’s not worth looking at, My Lady.”

Such insecurity and perfectionism in a child his age made her uneasy, but she did not want to press him. Instead, she told him, “Very well, Loki, but if you want to show me later, I would like to see it.”

Then she turned her attention back to the letter she was writing to Odin. Last night, Huginn had returned from Midgard with a message clamped in his beak. Though Frigga had attended to the more urgent matters straightaway—a tax increase he asked her to oversee his absence—she still had not responded to the more personal portions of his letter.

Skimming over it again, Frigga suppressed a chuckle. Her husband was quite eloquent and decisive in political settings, but when expressing his feelings, he was always terse and understated, and he could never outright say what he meant.

 _Your counsel is sorely missed, my queen_ , he wrote. He said nothing of love. Their correspondence might have even seemed cold to an outsider. But after thousands of years of marriage, Frigga understood that Odin was at his most reserved where his emotions were most intense. Paragraphs were contained in that lonely sentence.

Odin asked after their son’s wellbeing, naturally. Frigga could answer that easily enough. But then he had written, _How does our guest fare? He speaks more readily to you. I am curious to know your impression of him._

This gave Frigga pause.

 _Loki is quite clever_ , she wrote, and this was true enough. He devoured every library book she set in front of him, and when she prompted him to talk about them, it was clear that he comprehended well.

 _Shy_ , she wrote, _but once he feels at ease with someone, he’s much more verbal than Thor_. Indeed, Loki’s mastery over language was impressive for his age, even startlingly so.

 _And he is certainly a well-behaved child_ , she added. This was where she hesitated. She thought Loki a sweet, sensitive boy, and she enjoyed doting on him. But underneath, there seemed to be something a little bit _wrong_ about him, something she could not seem to articulate to Odin in a mere few pages.

Within the past couple of days, there had been things—minor incidents in their own right, but suggestive taken together—that distressed her.

For instance, once she reached out unthinkingly to smooth down one of his flyaway curls, the same way she would have done for Thor—but the way Loki flinched made her heart sink. She apologized for startling him; he apologized too, saying he knew she was not going to hurt him, but that made Frigga worry even more. His reaction was instinctive, then. He _expected_ to be hurt. She would have to be careful about upsetting him.

It surprised her, because Loki allowed _Thor_ to manhandle him, and it did not seem to trouble him. One afternoon, as the boys chased each other through the guest chambers, Thor caught up to Loki and lifted him off the ground easily, just because he could. For all of Loki’s indignant protests— _“unhand me, you oaf!”_ —he did not struggle very hard to escape the embrace and Frigga suspected he was rather pleased. It seemed that Loki’s wariness was reserved particularly for adults. Or perhaps Thor was the only Asgardian Loki felt fully at ease around.

Another day, in the midst of a conversation, she called him “dear heart” without giving it any thought. But when Loki looked utterly baffled, she had to awkwardly explain, “It is a common term of endearment in Asgard.”

When his confused frown deepened, she clarified, “It’s a name you call someone you are fond of.”

The boy seemed completely paralyzed at this.

“Do you…do you not use these in Jotunheim?” she asked. She did not want to make any assumptions; after all, different cultures show affection in different ways.

But Loki looked down at his lap and mumbled, “I would not know, My Lady.” His scarlet eyes glistened. Frigga could hear the implicit message in his words: _No one in Jotunheim is fond of me._

This, coupled with the way he tensed whenever Laufey’s name was mentioned, solidified some disturbing suspicions in Frigga’s mind about Loki’s home life. The more attached she grew to this sweet boy, the more enraged she felt. How could anyone be cruel to a child, let alone their own?

But she could not be certain. Most of the time, Loki seemed so _normal_. Like any other child, albeit a very shy one. True, he could be unnaturally precocious, and that worried her. (Though his expansive vocabulary, he informed her, was because one of the few books available for him to read in Jotunheim was a dictionary.) But she could not ask Loki directly if anything was wrong at home, and perhaps she was leaping to conclusions. There was a difference between cold parenting and outright mistreatment.

Still, what if Odin had unknowingly rescued Loki from more than just the battlefield on Midgard?

Frigga had frozen with her pen poised over the parchment, absently watching Loki and Thor chatter away together. Seeing the boys side by side only emphasized the stark contrast: where Thor was strong, a healthy glow on his cheeks, Loki was still so gaunt, and although it was difficult to tell with his blue skin, there seemed to be shadows under his eyes.

Then Loki coughed into his sleeve—a deep, rattling cough that left him gasping for breath afterwards—and Frigga did not like the sound of it at all.

Finally, she wrote a single sentence, and hoped that it would be enough.

_I believe that he is afraid of his father._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone asked me if Sif and the Warriors Three would actually show up in this story, and I'm answering here in case anyone else is wondering the same thing: Yes, eventually. In fact, next chapter, if all goes according to plan.
> 
> Thank you, everyone, for your patience and your encouragement.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, Sif, Fandral, and Hogun show up in this chapter. I haven't got much experience writing them, so I'm not sure about the execution. 
> 
> (If anyone is wondering where Volstagg is, it's my impression that he is significantly older than the others, so I would think he probably didn't become their friend until they were all adults and the age difference didn't matter so much.)

It was a radiant summer morning in Asgard. For the first time in a week, Thor laced up his outdoor boots—the ones Mother did not mind if he got muddy—and explored the palace grounds. The sun on his face felt glorious.

Mother had shooed him outside to burn off some of his long-bottled energy. Although his mind kept wandering guiltily to Loki, locked away in a tower still, he was grateful to finally have room to truly stretch his legs and run as fast as he wanted to. _Loki will still be here when you come back_ , Mother had reminded him. _And you should not neglect your other friends._

But she had made him swear, on his honor as a warrior, not to speak a word about Loki to his friends. Keeping secrets was not in Thor’s nature, but he did not want anyone to hurt his Jotun friend.

After some searching, he found his three comrades in one of their favorite haunts: climbing in the leafy branches of an old ash tree, where they could look over a high stone wall into Idunn’s orchards. They had tried, in the past, to sneak over the wall and pluck a few apples—the sweetest in all the Nine Realms—but they had gotten caught every time, and now contented themselves with the aroma of the fruit that wafted on the breeze.

“My friends,” Thor called up to them. “Have you missed me?”

Fandral nearly fell off his branch.

“Thor! You’re back!” he shouted, waving frantically to him until he almost lost his balance again.

Hogun remained more composed. “Your father finally let you outside again,” he observed neutrally from his bough, although Thor knew he was glad to see him, because the usually-solemn boy actually cracked a small smile.

“Come on, then, join us,” Sif said, grinning.

Thor’s heart swelled as he scrambled up to sit with them. He loved this feeling, of being missed, of _belonging_.

“We were starting to worry you would die of boredom,” said Sif. Her trousers, Thor noticed, were torn in a few places from climbing.

“Not quite,” Thor laughed. “Though it is good to see you all again.”

“Is it true, what everyone is saying?” Fandral asked him in a hushed voice, quivering with excitement.

“You believe everything you hear, Fandral, no matter how ridiculous,” Hogun muttered under his breath.

Ignoring him, Fandral continued in a rush, “Is it true that there is a Frost Giant in the dungeons?”

Thor felt his palms start to sweat. He had hoped he could skirt around having to tell any outright lies—that his only deception would be one of omission—but now he had no choice.

_If you wish to keep your friend safe, you will not speak a word about him_ , his mother had charged him. And he had given his word.

“I…I don’t know,” said Thor uncomfortably. “My father caught me before I could see.”

The words came out stiff and awkward. It was not, perhaps, as big a lie as telling them positively that there were no Frost Giants in Asgard. But Thor still did not like it. The secret burned inside him—there was now a portion of his life that they could not know about.

Fandral’s shoulders slumped in disappointment. Thor could feel Sif’s eyes watching him, as if she knew something was troubling him. But she did not press the matter.

“Let’s play a game,” she suggested. “We could rescue a damsel from a fire drake.”

“Only if I get to be a warrior this time,” Fandral complained. “I _hate_ being the damsel.”

“It is your own fault for dressing like one,” Sif said with a snort, eying the fine embroidery on the hem of Fandral’s periwinkle tunic.

Fandral opened his mouth, but before he could turn this discussion into a full-fledged flyting, Thor intervened.

“We should play something where we can all be warriors,” he said firmly. The others nodded.

Perhaps it was his rank as prince that made Thor’s friends follow his lead, but he did not think it was that, exactly. He simply felt natural in a position of leadership, and they were loyal. They looked to him for direction, and he was glad to provide.

“We could invade Jotunheim,” Hogun said.

The blood drained from Thor’s face.

Sif and Fandral cheered at this idea and dropped immediately to the ground. Fandral brushed the dirt hastily from his clothes as Sif snickered. Hogun followed them, almost silently.

“The tree can be the fortress,” Sif decided, “and we are laying siege to it. The fate of Asgard rests in the hands of just a few brave warriors.”

“These monsters must be destroyed, once and for all!” Fandral chimed in.

“We will rid the Nine Realms of this menace.”

“We will not rest until their heads are mounted on our walls.”

They continued their typical war cries, stolen straight from various sagas, but Thor couldn’t speak. He felt nauseous. Just a fortnight ago, he would have joined them with relish. He wanted to be part of their group again, wanted them happy. But now—even if they didn’t know it, even if it was just pretend, they were plotting the death of his friend—he couldn’t listen to it.

“Thor? Are you coming down?” said Fandral.

It was an effort to keep his voice steady. “Can we play a different game?”

They all goggled at Thor as if his skin had suddenly turned blue.

“Why?” Sif demanded, her forehead wrinkling in confusion. “Slaying Frost Giants is your favorite game.”

“Well, I do not like it anymore,” Thor said. “I…I want to play something else.”

“Is something wrong, Thor?” He wished he could simply explain the truth to them. But he had promised.

He racked his brains for another game, one they would like just as much—then at least they would not be upset, and would stop asking questions.

“I know—let’s go on a treasure hunt instead,” he said, trying to inspire some enthusiasm for this alternative. “There can be dangerous traps, and maybe a troll guarding the way…”

His friends were eventually persuaded—since Thor would not come out of the tree until they agreed—and the fearless band of warriors searched for precious jewels in the mines of Nidavellir, instead of killing giants in Jotunheim.

It was good to run around and laugh with his friends again, but it was hard for Thor to ignore the unease settling in the pit of his stomach.

_I have a new friend_ , he wanted to tell them. _He is funny and clever and tells wonderful stories. And he is a Frost Giant._

He wanted Loki at his side. The Jotun prince was too small to belong in Jotunheim, but perhaps he could belong here, with them. With Thor. Perhaps it was a silly thing to wish, but he had gotten so used to Loki’s presence in such a short period of time that it was hard to imagine going back to life without him.

Thor had wanted all of his friends to know each other. Now, he was not so certain that was wise after all.

* * *

 

On Midgard, the All-Father in his tent was just dismissing a war council. The commanders were loath to leave the fireside, since going outside meant being assaulted by the blizzard that was now ravaging this area. But above the howling wind, there was a sudden commotion—there were wounded men arriving in the camp—and the soldiers rushed out to help bring them to the healers.

An officer entered the king’s tent to report the number of fatalities.

“It was a costly victory, My King,” he said, keeping his eyes on the ground. “Not simply in numbers, but…”

“Who has fallen?” Odin’s tone made it clear that he was not in a mood to be trifled with.

Another officer entered, carrying a body wrapped in a bloodstained cloak. Odin lifted the makeshift shroud to gaze into the dead man’s face. All of the wounds were on the front of his body—he had never tried to retreat, then. Valhalla awaited him, at least.

_Geir always was reckless and headstrong_ , Odin thought, sighing. _Well, now a warrior’s greatest glory is his._

This war had cost the king one of his best generals.

“Take his body back to Asgard,” he ordered the officers. “See to it that he is given a warrior’s funeral. Tell his family—”

Odin paused. He closed his eyes, allowing himself just one moment of heavy regret. Geir’s daughter, Sif, was one of Thor’s close companions, Odin knew. He had not just lost a valuable chess piece, but a child had lost her father, a wife her husband.

“All-Father?” one of the officers prompted timidly.

“Tell his family that he died with honor, and that their king will not forget them.”

The soldiers bowed in assent and took away the limp, shrouded form on a stretcher. Moments later came the rushing sound of the Bifröst pulling them back home.


	12. Chapter 12

_Midgard was not the first time Loki had tried to run away._

_Laufey was in another one of his rages. Loki had fled the palace and sought refuge in the Fields of the Dead, where he now stood before his family—the tall stones towering above his head just as their living forms would have—shivering with so much fear he worried his legs might give out. Every inhale was a struggle. Surely some bit of their spirits lingered here, might comfort him, protect him?_

_Apart from his imagined memory, all Loki knew of his mother came from the etchings on her funeral stele:_ in memory of Farbauti, most beloved queen _. Succinct and direct, as Jotun carvings tended to be. The geometric patterns across the stone marked her as a magic crafter, a rare gift in this realm, yet Loki had never heard anyone speak of her abilities. Of course, Farbauti was not really_ there _—Jotuns burned their dead, the frozen ground making burial impossible, and her soul would have been set free with the scattering of the ashes—but he liked to stand before the monument anyway, as if he could absorb more information by simply looking at it long enough._

_Next to Farbauti, a smaller stele for a son, Helblindi. The date of death told Loki that his brother had died during the first war with Asgard, just days before their mother. The stone had a seal on it that indicated he had perished by the sword._

_But dusk was approaching, and the shadows were lengthening, and now even the stones sacred to his mother and brother seemed to gaze down at him sternly, seemed to whisper,_ Why should you have survived and we have died? What right have you to draw breath?

_He had begun crying again, but he clasped a hand over his mouth to muffle the sobs._

Crunch, crunch, crunch.

_Muffled footsteps in the snow, drawing nearer. His stomach churned with dread._

He is looking for me _._

_Loki was better at hiding than running—one of Laufey’s huge strides outpaced ten of Loki’s—but that day he could not remain hidden. He could not stifle his fear and stay quiet while Laufey walked past. He could not bear to be that close; he had to run. He ran and ran and ran until his was gasping for air, not knowing where he was headed, or if anyone pursued. But he found himself climbing the cliffs encircling Utgard, stumbling over rocks, slipping, climbing, until he reached a cave at the summit._

* * *

 

“And they lived very happily for the rest of their days,” said Frigga softly, closing the book. “The end.”

It was late. She could see that the boys were drifting off to sleep: Loki could barely keep his eyes open, and Thor stretched and yawned every few minutes. They were both curled up on Loki’s bed, listening to her bedtime story, though she had made a barricade of blankets and pillows between them to ensure they did not accidentally touch. She had not really stayed faithful to the storybook she held, but had embellished the tale for each of them—adding in more swordfights and daring rescues for Thor, and a clever hero that saves the day by solving a riddle for Loki. And instead of beheading the wicked king at the end, Frigga had the hero convince him to make amends for his crimes.

It was not a typical Asgardian tale, but Norns knew real life held enough death and vengeance of late. The imaginary world could stand to be a little more forgiving.

She shook Thor back to wakefulness. “I think it’s time to go back to your room, dear.”

“But I’m not sleepy, Mother,” he insisted through a yawn.

She chuckled. “Is that so? It doesn’t seem that way.”

“Can I not stay here tonight? Please?”

“No, Thor, I don’t want you up late talking. We have General Geir’s funeral early in the morning.”

Thor groaned, but he pulled himself grudgingly out of bed and trudged to the door. Loki sat up, rubbing the drowsiness from his crimson eyes.

“Did someone die?” Loki asked in a small voice.

“Yes, Loki,” Frigga sighed. “Both sides have lost many. It happens in war.” As much as she yearned to shield him from the ugliness of this reality, she also wanted to be honest with him. The Jotun casualties were probably higher than the Æsir ones, but she knew that would not exactly be comforting information.

“But…someone you knew?” he said, looking back and forth between Frigga and Thor.

His small hands were clenched in the silk sheets, and his forehead was wrinkled with distress. He looked almost _guilty_. She did not know what to make of his tendency to take the blame for every misfortune, but it broke her heart to witness. She sat on the edge of the bed closest to him and used her most reassuring tone.

“Yes, people have died—Asgardians and Frost Giants—and it is very sad. But you boys have nothing to do with that, and there is nobody to blame for it. It is simply the nature of war.”

_If I only I could wrap my arms around him_ , she thought ruefully. It was not easy to comfort a child she could not touch. She fluffed up his pillow and smoothed the sheets for him.

“I want you to have happy dreams tonight, Loki. Understood?”

He did not return her smile, but slowly his head sank back onto the pillow, his eyes never leaving her face.

“Goodnight, My Lady,” he whispered.

“Goodnight, Loki. Sleep well.”

Before she shut the door, she heard Loki cough so hard that the bed shook. She peered back into the room.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, My Lady. Please don’t worry,” he said quickly.

* * *

 

There had been many funerals in Asgard over the past few months. Thor had not attended any of them until today, but he had been able to see the ships burning on the water from his window. Tradition stipulated that fallen warriors be burned as quickly as possible, so that their souls could find Valhalla. Therefore, it was a simple ceremony, to guide the dead on their journey.

Geir, as the highest-ranking soldier, was laid in the most ornate frigate, one with a snarling dragonhead prow, his body arrayed in ceremonial armor and clutching the sword that Odin had gifted him with upon his appointment as general. Other warriors—at least a dozen smaller skiffs—were sent into the water after him. Archers from the shore set the ships ablaze.

No one spoke a word. It was expected that everyone remain stoic and silent for this rite. Asgardian funerals were solemn affairs; tears were discouraged. Thor watched the flames consume the silhouettes of men, though everyone else’s eyes seemed drawn to the smoke mingling with the sunrise.

He wasn’t grieving, exactly, but he felt very strange. This was someone he had known. Not particularly well, of course, but he remembered Geir’s deep laugh, the way he used to pick Sif up and twirl her around. He remembered Geir as talking, breathing, living, but now he was suddenly gone. Thor understood death as a concept, but he had never been truly confronted with it—loss had never had a face or a name until now.

After the funeral, there was a feast to honor the lives of the fallen, to tell tales of their deeds. To remember gladly.

Thor saw Frigga across the room, expressing her condolences to Lady Brynja, Sif’s mother. _How does Mother always know the right thing to say to make someone feel better?_ he wondered.

He found Sif and tried to recall what his mother had told him to say.

“I’m sorry about your father,” he mumbled.

Sif nodded jerkily. She was dressed in a gown for once, a dull grey, and her long hair was tied back into a sleek knot. Thor almost blurted out that she looked unusually pretty—but he felt guilty even thinking that when she was so sad and her eyes were rimmed with red. They stood there in awkward silence for a moment.

Thor pulled her into a tight embrace—it was the only way he could find to express what he felt. Sif said nothing, but she held on fiercely for a moment. When she extricated herself, Thor was startled to see that Sif was scowling. The tears that now spilled onto her cheeks seemed more of rage than of sorrow.

“You were right, Thor,” she said in a low, shaking voice. “Killing Frost Giants is not a fun game anymore.”

He wanted to be relieved at her conclusion, but there was something in her tone that made Thor feel cold and unnerved.

“I want you to witness my vow,” Sif said, her gaze intense. “I will avenge my father.”

Thor blanched. “But Sif—”

“It’s a warrior’s sacred duty to avenge his kin. And I mean to.”

Struggling for a response, Thor found himself protesting, “But you are not a warrior, Sif.”

“I will be someday,” she said hotly, narrowing her eyes and crossing her arms over her chest. “When I am grown, I’ll repay the Frost Giants for what they have done.”

Thor knew it was not the time for arguing with his friend—her loss was still a fresh wound—but he had to bite his tongue to prevent himself. At least he would have a long time to try to change her mind.

* * *

 

Loki knew he was not well.

His head felt hazy and his hearing was muffled, as if someone had stuffed his ears with cotton. It was impossible to concentrate on his library books. He was starting to shiver, though it made no sense for a Jotun to feel cold in Asgard, and when he put a hand to his forehead, he realized it was beaded with sweat.

Most unbearable, however, was the wheezing that made his chest feel tight every time he took a breath. Truthfully, that had started a few days before, as much as he had tried to ignore it and convince himself it would pass. Every time he got into a coughing fit, it was difficult not to panic—nothing frightened him more than feeling like he could not breathe, but his anxiety only made the attack worse.

Nonetheless, when Frigga arrived to check on him later that day, he tried to maintain a polite façade. The queen looked so tired, and surely she had enough troubles without adding his own to them.

She saw right through his charade.

“Loki, something is clearly wrong, so will you please tell me?” she asked, searching his face with a piercing stare. “The _truth_ , not what you think I want to hear.”

“Please don’t fret, My Lady, I—”

He could not finish his sentence, could not prevent the coughing fit he was seized with. When he pulled his sleeve away from his mouth, it was speckled with red. He tried to hide it from the queen, but she noticed anyway.

She stared at him for a brief instant, aghast.

“Loki is this… _is this blood?_ ”

Loki didn’t know what to say, but he felt as if he had done something wrong.

Frigga stood, her manner firm and businesslike, though her voice trembled slightly. “I’m fetching a healer this instant. I want you to lie on the bed, very still, until I return. Understood?”

Gasping for breath between coughs, Loki could not argue with her.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, everyone, who has left such kind reviews. Your support means a lot to me.

The healing rooms were a frenzy of activity. Every bed was occupied—unsurprising, in wartime—and some were partitioned off with curtains. Ladies in practical blue smocks were winding bandages, applying healing poultices, setting bones. Some were examining holographic images of their patients, checking for internal injuries.

Most of the women were too occupied to notice Frigga’s entrance, and she could not blame them. She sought out the head healer—distinguishable from her assistants only by the gold brooch on her shoulder—who was overseeing the afternoon distribution of medicine.

“Lady Eir, when you have a moment,” Frigga said.

Eir nodded and placed her second-in-command in charge, so that she could follow Frigga into the corridor to speak privately. Her face remained neutral as she waited for the queen to speak.

Frigga had the utmost of confidence in Eir. She could be proud, even haughty at times, but she was refreshingly levelheaded and efficient. Her loyalty to the royal family was unswerving. Perhaps most importantly, she was a physician above all else. For Eir, this was not merely a means of supporting herself, but a vocation, to cure the sick and mend the wounded regardless of who they were or what they had done.

As the chief healer, Eir was already intimately tied up in the royal family’s concerns—she had delivered Thor, and had been there when Frigga lost Balder. She was not a tender woman, she was direct and cool in her manner, but she still had known all the right things to say to Frigga during her time of anguish when Odin was helpless in the matter.

“Forgive me for asking this of you, now of all times,” Frigga sighed. “Norns know you all have enough responsibility of late. But this is a matter of some delicacy that requires…discretion. And there are few whom I can trust.”

“I will do what I can for you, My Queen.”

Frigga led Eir to Loki’s chambers. They could hear his coughs from the other side of the door.

“As I said, Eir, this is a matter that must go no further than the two of us,” she warned.

“Understood.”

Inside, Loki was in his bed where Frigga had left him. It was clear that he was ill: his scarlet eyes were glassy, and he barely had the strength to lift his head from the pillow. There was a moment of silence as the healer took in the scene; she merely blinked a few times in mild surprise and betrayed no other reaction.

“I know this is asking a great deal of you, Eir—”

“He is just another patient,” Eir said crisply, and strode to his bedside without hesitation.

Frigga followed her, noting with unease that Loki had begun to shiver as if he had chills, and barely seemed cognizant of their approach.

“Loki, this is Eir,” she explained to him. “She is the most proficient healer in Asgard, and she can be trusted, I promise you.”

He nodded weakly. Eir opened her satchel and began to unpack several silver diagnostic instruments and a heavy anatomy text.

“I confess, I have never treated a Jotun before, but the principles are more or less the same,” she muttered, flipping through pages until she reached a section entitled _Maladies and Peculiarities of Frost Giants_ , setting it on the nightstand where she could easily refer to it. She then took out a pair of thick leathery gloves.

“Dragon hide,” Eir explained, in response to Frigga’s questioning look. “Hardly a perfect solution, but if it can withstand the fires of Muspelheim, it should do well enough against the chill.” She turned now to Loki and said briskly, “Your wrist, please, I must take your pulse.”

Loki’s eyes darted between the two women nervously, but at Frigga’s encouraging nod, he held out his hand, and Eir carefully felt his pulse, checking her book to determine whether it was within a normal range for his species. When Loki fell into another coughing fit, she pursed her lips.

“My Lady, perhaps you would prefer to wait outside?”

Loki’s eyes suddenly flew open, and between coughs he begged, “Please don’t leave!”

“Shh, be still, little prince, I’m not going anywhere,” Frigga soothed, pretending not to notice Eir’s scrutiny of their interaction. She was not certain she could explain to an outsider the overwhelming responsibility she felt toward him, how deeply it hurt to see him in pain. She stayed at his side, close but never touching, reassuring him as Eir used a conical instrument to listen to the wheezing in his lungs.

The healer revealed nothing in her expression as she worked, remaining coolly detached and professional, but after running her tests, she signaled to Frigga to step onto the balcony off Loki’s chambers, where they would not be overheard.

“I cannot yet conclusively identify the infection,” said the healer. “This combination of symptoms is entirely unfamiliar to me. But his fever seems to be growing worse, and I don’t like the wheezing in his lungs, so I will give him a potion first to address his symptoms.”

Frigga could hardly force the breath out of her to form the words, “Is it serious?”  

“It appears that way, My Queen,” Eir said simply, though not without sympathy. She touched Frigga’s arm on her way back inside, as if to offer her strength.

 

* * *

 

Loki’s fever was indeed growing worse, and no tonic seemed effective in bringing it down.

Frigga had not realized that a species with such cold body temperatures could experience fevers, but, as Eir explained to her, Jotuns were in fact just as warm-blooded as the Æsir _within_ their bodies—but they had thick, tough hides to protect them from the harsh winters, and pulled all of their body heat to their core, which was why their skin was cold enough to burn.

Still, Loki’s fragile constitution did not seem equipped to cope with a high fever. He lay motionless on the bed, except when struggling to breathe between convulsive coughing fits—sometimes choking up spots of blood—and he seemed too exhausted to open his eyes more than a sliver.

Frigga postponed her less important appointments for the day, and delegated tasks to her ladies-in-waiting, so that she could spend as much time at Loki’s bedside as possible. Occasionally, she borrowed Eir’s protective gloves to dab at his forehead with a cloth soaked in ice water, hoping to bring the fever down or at least bring him some relief.

Meanwhile, Eir worked to diagnose the infection, a tedious undertaking because they could not use the Soul Forge in the crowded healing chambers, since Loki could not be seen by anyone else.  

Though the healer urged her queen to get some rest as the day turned into night, Frigga refused to leave him.

She knew Eir was swallowing dozens of questions out of loyalty, but she would not know where to begin answering them. How could she, when she could not explain even to herself why she felt as protective and as distressed as if her own child lay on that sickbed? She smoothed Loki’s inky hair against his pillow, swallowing back the lump in her throat.

“I cannot lose another child, Eir,” Frigga said hoarsely. “You understand, don’t you?”

Perhaps this was an inaccurate phrasing— _Loki is not yours_ , she chastised herself—but he was entrusted to her care for the time being. Eir’s eyes flicked curiously between Loki and Frigga, but eventually she said, “I understand, My Lady. I will do everything in my power.”

For the first time that day, Loki began to mumble in his fitful state between dreaming and waking. They had to lean close to hear his words, and even then, they could only catch one: _Mama._

There a tense beat of silence.

Then Eir said, “He’s delirious, My Queen. Doesn’t know where he is. This is not a good sign.”

Frigga stood back to allow the healer more room to work, all the while gnawing on her bottom lip.

_His mother is dead, he told me so himself_ , she fretted; _does he expect to see her again soon?_

 

* * *

 

Thor made his way to Loki’s guest chamber after his lessons, as had become routine, but he found his mother outside the door waiting for him.

 “Loki cannot play with you today,” she said; “he is very sick.”

Her face was creased with worry and her voice was tired; Thor wondered how early she had awoken to check on Loki.

 “But…but we were just playing together yesterday and he was fine,” he protested. “How can he be sick?”

Frigga took a deep breath and reached over to place a hand on his cheek, but Thor jerked away—he had no patience for gestures of comfort right now, not when he needed answers. He could tell that she was trying to prepare him for unpleasant news.

 “I want to see him, Mother,” Thor demanded.

 “Not right now. Eir has asked that I keep you away for the time being, because it may be contagious.”

 “When will he be well again?” he asked, eyes welling with tears.

The way that Frigga hesitated, biting her lip, sent a shiver of fear through Thor.

 “I don’t know, dear heart,” she admitted in a hoarse voice. “I don’t wish to scare you, but I want you to be prepared—Eir seems to think it’s quite serious—”

Thor hastily wiped his nose on the back of his hand, but it mattered little; his eyes were streaming steadily. For the first time in a long while, he did not squirm away when his mother gathered him into her arms—he held on tightly, for she seemed to need some of his strength, too.

How could all of this have happened so suddenly?

 “What can I do, Mother?” he choked. “How can I help?”

Frigga kissed the top of his head. “I’m afraid an infection isn’t an enemy you can fight against, my little warrior,” she said with a sigh. “We must let Eir do her work, and trust her to do whatever she can.”

 “But there must be _something_ …”

Frigga considered for a moment. “If you wish to help your friend, go and ask your grandparents to look after him. Can you do that?”

Thor frowned at this assignment, but he nodded glumly.

He obeyed his mother and headed for the Hall of Ancestors. It was a long corridor, broken up by tall arched windows that looked out over the queen’s gardens in bloom. Between the windows were niches containing marble statues, and on the walls were hung tapestries depicting Valkyries carrying off the worthy souls.

The atmosphere was hushed, only a few noblewomen paying their respects in one corner.

Thor went to the two largest statues in the center: one depicting a tall, proud-looking woman in long robes, and the other a fierce bearded man with ram’s horns on his helmet. He cleared his throat awkwardly and cast a surreptitious glance at the ladies down the hall to see how they were doing this. They were laying flowers and lighting candles for their ancestors, but Thor was empty-handed.

He never came here of his own accord, because he hated how solemn and silent the hall was—it made him feel claustrophobic. His parents had taken him here only a few times before, when he was much younger, and he could not remember how they had prayed.

 “Grandmother, Grandfather,” he addressed them. He felt a little foolish speaking to inanimate marble, but he didn’t know what else to do. Bor and Bestla’s empty eyes bored into his. “I don’t know if you can hear me from Valhalla, or if you can do anything to help me, but—” Thor’s voice became thick and his vision grew blurry from tears. “Please. It’s my friend Loki. He’s very sick and I’m scared he won’t get better. My mother says you were good at healing magic, Amma, so if you could…maybe…” He wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Afi, I know you didn’t like Frost Giants very much, but you would like Loki. He’s very clever, and Father says you were too, so you would have lots to talk about together.”

Thor had never met any of his grandparents: Bor and Bestla had both died before he’d even been born. But King Bor was a hero, a legend, revered even in death, so surely he could show Thor what to do?

 “Please protect him when I cannot,” Thor said finally. There was no kind of answer, though he hadn’t exactly expected one. He did not know how to close this one-sided conversation, so he mumbled, “That’s…that’s all,” before turning and fleeing the room.

  

* * *

         

In the haze of his fever, Loki had many dreams.

Sometimes, the room before him would seem distorted in the dark, enormous, faceless silhouettes looming, watching him. Sometimes there were monsters circling the bed, debating whether to eat him, the dim light glinting off their hideous claws. Other times, he found his mind being transported away from his body, as if he could fly over the palace unseen and watch the bustling activity in the streets below.

Several times, he found himself in Jotunheim again, watching a fearsome giant holding a pathetic struggling creature by the neck, about to choke the life out of it. Though the vision did not make any more sense than the others, this one frightened him the most, caused him to scream and scream though he couldn’t hear his own voice.

Sometimes, however, there were good dreams.

Between the moments of horror, there was often a lady that seemed to glow, whispering soothingly to him, running soft fingers through his hair, wiping his burning forehead with something cool. Sometimes she sang softly to him—a lullaby, he decided, though he had never heard one before.

He was grateful for this brief respite from the nightmares, glad that not all his dreams had to be bad ones. He was allowed to believe for a moment that someone did not want him to die.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We briefly interrupt this angst to give you some actual plot for a minute. Hang on tight, because a lot of questions from earlier in this story are about to be answered.
> 
> p.s. I know I've never done headings for flashbacks before, but I just really didn't want people getting confused with these two scenes.

One Year Ago

Mod, the queen of the dwarves, managed to be intimidating despite her size. She declined the chair in the council room that Laufey offered her, perhaps owing to the fact that she barely reached his waist when they were both standing. She wore a bronze breastplate and gauntlets over her velvet gown, the metal scratched and battered to impress the viewer with the battles she had survived, and there was a deep scar across her left cheek that resembled claw marks.

“Well, King of Jotunheim?” she demanded, looking about the cavernous meeting hall expectantly. It was empty but for the two of them. “I have accepted your invitation because you promised it would be worth my while to hear you.”

Queen Mod clearly did not enjoy being here: try though she might to hide behind her imperious manner, and despite the heavy fox fur draped across her shoulders, she could not entirely suppress her shivers. Laufey smirked, leaning back comfortably in his chair for a moment. For Jotunheim, this was a pleasant spring day.

_A pragmatic approach, then_ , Laufey decided.

“I spoke truly,” he told her. “Jotunheim arms itself for war as we speak—a second invasion of Midgard.”

She raised her eyebrows, speechless. She turned her back on him and began pacing, her right hand twitching at her side as if longing for the weapons Laufey’s guards had stripped her of.

“There are whispers in my realm, King Laufey,” she said conversationally, “that your defeat at the hands of the Æsir has driven you to madness. And now I think that I am beginning to believe them.” She laughed harshly. “I am surprised your subjects have not overthrown you by now, though I suppose I’ll never understand you giants’ preoccupation with bloodlines and ‘right to rule’ and the like.”

Laufey’s fists clenched around the arms of his chair, but he kept his voice cool and rational. _Perhaps if you dwarves wore your lineage on your skin for all to see, blood would matter to you more_ , he thought.

“It is not madness, though cunning is often mistaken for such by those with less imagination.”

She ignored his underhanded jab. “If you choose to lead your people to their doom, that is no concern of mine,” she said with a shrug. “But you will not involve the dwarves. We want nothing to do with Midgard.”

“Midgard is not the prize we seek.”

He knew then that he had piqued her interest, for she halted in her pacing and half-turned toward him.

“I am listening, King Laufey.”

“In Odin’s palace, there is a great Vault, filled with riches from the realms he has subdued. He does not use them as weapons to further his cause—they are but trophies to him, symbols of submission. He has taken one such item from Jotunheim, not because of the threat it poses to him, but in order to break our spirit.”

“You wish to reclaim the Casket of Ancient Winters,” Mod said flatly. “What has this to do with me?”

“At least one third of this Vault is stocked with treasures of Nidavellir,” he said, watching her face carefully for her reaction. “If I am not mistaken, the dwarves were forced to craft many of these ‘gifts’ as tribute to their conquerors? Let’s see….there is a mighty warship that can be folded up and fit into one’s pocket…a sword that needs no wielder to slay all in its path…and a war-hammer that can call forth a storm. Have I forgotten anything?”

Her eyes flashed and she took several angry steps toward him. “You speak as if these were mere trinkets we covet,” she snapped. “So very like giants, to paint us dwarves as greedy and—”

“You mistake me,” he said calmly. “These items languish in the All-Father’s halls, gathering dust, but they could restore the glory of Nidavellir. I understand that more fully than you realize.”

The queen was silent, studying his face shrewdly as she considered. “If it is Asgard you wish to invade,” she said finally, “then what value does Midgard hold?”

Now she was asking the important questions. “Asgard’s defenses are notoriously difficult to breach,” Laufey explained. “I suppose you have heard the stories about that damnable watchman of theirs?”

“Ah, yes. Heimdall the All-Seeing, the All-Father’s eyes throughout the Nine Realms.” Her lips curled into a knowing smirk. “So Midgard is intended to be a distraction, to draw his gaze away from home?”

Outside in the corridor came a muffled clang, as if someone had knocked over one of the braziers along the wall. Mod looked at Laufey in alarm, as their conversation was apparently not entirely private, but he waved away her anxieties. He knew exactly what caused the sound.

“It’s nothing but a pest,” he assured her. “Not unlike a snow-rat lurking about the palace—a nuisance, but not a threat.”

That boy had developed a maddening habit of listening at doors like a common chambermaid.

_Perhaps a week without supper would cure you of it. Or perhaps two weeks. Just wait until I get my hands on you, boy…_

“What is it that you ask of me?”

Laufey shook himself and returned to the matter at hand. “It is not your legions I have need of. My warriors will not face Asgard’s might head-on—that is a mistake I will not make twice. The traditional Jotun form of combat will suffice, dodging and feinting, forcing them to make chase, spreading the enemy forces thin over a large area.”

“You wish to exhaust them, then?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.

“We simply need to buy enough time to find a point to infiltrate the palace undetected, so that a small company can sneak in and retrieve the Casket. That will be your opportunity to reclaim whatever you see fit.”

Mod paced in silence, twirling the end of her ginger braid absently. When she faced Laufey again, her black eyes were gleaming with excitement, but her tone was still guarded.

“This is a tremendous gamble, King of Jotunheim,” she warned him. “If it should fail?”

He leaned forward in his seat so that their faces were inches apart.

“I am desperate indeed, Queen of Nidavellir,” he growled. “Desperate enough to seek out an alliance with you, my old enemy. If I had a less risky option, do you not think I would have taken it already?”

Far from daunted, the queen smiled.

“Let us discuss terms, then.”

 

* * *

 

Present Day

Odin unfolded the most recent letter from Asgard and recognized Frigga’s delicate handwriting. He would have known it was from her anyways—her heavenly lilac perfume lingered on the parchment, or at least Odin imagined it did.

Her letters were a balm to him, so many miles from home. She always managed to pick out the right trivial details to tell him—when Thor got unusually high marks on his astronomy test, when Loki said something particularly precocious that she thought would amuse Odin, when the boys came up with a new game together.

More and more, she was calling them that— _the boys_ —a collective unit. It rolled off her pen naturally, as if they had been together all their lives. Odin was not certain what to make of that. But she had given him a vivid picture of what home looked like in his absence.

He began skimming this new letter, curious to see what she would tell him about the children today. But the first line stopped him cold.

_Loki is gravely ill._

Frigga explained the situation to him, that Eir was looking after him but she was not optimistic. He had been feverish and delirious for three days now without improvement.

_What have I done?_ He wondered. Had taking the boy away from his environment somehow sickened him? Had he removed Loki from his best chance at survival?

For a moment, Odin feared what Laufey would do if his son died in captivity—but since over a fortnight had gone by without a single messenger demanding Loki’s return, Odin felt more disturbed by Laufey’s lack of concern.

Though he had not spoken very much to him, Odin liked the boy. It was impossible to deny. He was impressed and amused by Loki’s cleverness and occasional cheekiness—it reminded Odin of himself at that age—and he was starting to pity the apparently cold upbringing he had had thus far.

No one so young should die, of course, but Odin would feel more than a twinge of regret if Loki were unable to fight off this infection.

_Is our duty as parents not to protect children trusted to our care?_ Frigga had challenged him not so long ago. The words kept echoing in his mind, and he could not block them out.

He perused the letter again, searching for any sign of hope.

Though Frigga was writing with a great deal of restraint, there was an undercurrent of worry in her letter. No, not simply worry. He knew his wife would never make such a blunt omission as _I am afraid, Odin_ , unless she was in outright anguish.

This was not disinterested sympathy for a stranger’s child—this was a frantic mother.

He knew she had been growing rather attached to the boy, but he had not predicted this.

_What have I done?_ He thought again with a sinking feeling.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So far I've been pretty vague and non-graphic about the child abuse in Loki's backstory, but in this chapter I'm going to be a little more specific. It's still not really graphic per se, which is why I'm not changing the tags, but if this is a sensitive topic for you, I recommend skipping the third section (the one with a lot of italics) just to be safe.

_Tat tat tat_. 

The gray early morning light had barely begun streaming into the room before Frigga heard knocking at the door. She must have dozed off in the armchair beside Loki’s bed, and as she lurched to her feet, she realized Eir had draped a quilt over her during the night. She folded it with a grateful smile. The healer had been working tirelessly, for such long hours, yet she was always the one insisting _Frigga_ should rest. 

It seemed Loki had finally managed to drift into uncomfortable sleep, for though he shifted restlessly, at least he did not cry, as he had done most of the night.

Apart from the soft sound of water running in the bath—Eir was already up, fetching hot water for cleaning her instruments—the chambers were so quiet that Frigga wondered if she had imagined the sound that woke her. That is, until she heard it again, more insistently.

_TAT TAT TAT_.

Frigga rubbed her temples. She knew the knock well enough. She opened the door only wide enough to step outside into the corridor, where her son waited impatiently, still in his nightshirt and dressing gown.

“Thor, you know you must not come in,” said Frigga with a tired sigh. Her voice was hoarse. “I have already explained to you. Loki is not well enough to see anyone, and Eir still is not certain he is not contagious. We cannot have you ill, too.”

_Norns forbid_ , she added silently. The possibility made her stomach turn.

“I only wanted to give him something,” Thor mumbled. “I thought it might cheer him up.”

Frigga did not have the heart to tell him that Loki had been delirious for days. She kissed the top of Thor’s head before he could squirm away and said, “That is very kind of you, dear heart. I shall see to it that he gets it.”

Reluctantly, Thor handed her a piece of paper and trudged back the way he came, hanging his head.

Frigga’s throat closed up for a moment—she had been so consumed with worry over whether Loki would recover that she had not even given thought to how she would comfort her son if he lost his friend. Thor was a resilient child, but he had yet to experience loss—his life had been a clear summer sky untroubled by clouds. The thought of burdening his young, carefree heart with grief was unbearable.

After shutting the door, Frigga turned to Eir, who had been listening to the conversation with a slight frown. “Those boys have been inseparable almost since Loki arrived,” she explained apologetically, returning to her post at the sickbed.

She unfolded the paper, which turned out to be a page torn out from a library book—an illustration of the Jotun tundra. With colored ink, Thor had added two crude stick figures: one sporting a shock of yellow hair and a red cape blowing the wrong direction in the wind, the other with a face colored in bright blue, two red circles for eyes, a careless scribble of black for hair. Both figures smiled broadly. Together. Facing forward.

_A kind of magic_ , as Loki had called such images in Jotun tradition. And now Thor, in innocent desperation, seemed to be willing to try anything to make it come true.

Frigga stood the drawing up on the nightstand. _He’ll see it when he wakes_ , she told herself firmly. _He will_.

She dried her face before turning back to Eir.

The healer’s face had grown slack, as if focusing on something in the distance. “Of course,” she murmured. “How could I have been so _oblivious?_ ”

Eir stood abruptly and began rifling through the instruments in her satchel. She withdrew a golden sphere that fit into the palm of her hand. When she tapped the top of it, it projected a screen with an endless list of names and dates, which she scrolled through with a swipe of her finger, her brow creased in concentration.

For a few minutes of tense silence, Frigga dared not disturb Eir’s searching, though she couldn’t fathom what had spurred this apparent epiphany. The gleam of single-minded purpose in Eir’s eyes made the queen hold her breath—the first glimmer of hope she had felt in days, though she did not dare entertain it any further.

Eventually Frigga had to ask, “What _are_ you looking for, Eir?”

“These are our archives, storing images of all the blood samples I’ve taken in the past. Hopelessly outdated, I know—one of these days I really ought to transfer all these old records to our new system, but I never seem to have the t—ah!” She selected a name and enlarged the image that appeared, leaning forward to examine it closely.

To Frigga, the moving image resembled a hideous tentacled creature of the deep, devouring everything in its path—but she knew it must be a disease, invading healthy cells.

“Of _course_. It was so simple all along,” said Eir, a satisfied smile creeping across her face. She was always troubled by unsolved puzzles, and relieved by logical resolutions. “Your son held the answer, My Lady.”

Frigga joined Eir’s side, noticing at last the name scrolling across the bottom of the image: _Thor Odinson_.

“I do not understand—do you mean to say that Loki caught this infection from Thor? How can that be, when my son shows no signs of illness? You examined him yourself.”

She wanted to share Eir’s enthusiasm, but she did not quite understand the reason for it.

“One need not show symptoms to be a carrier,” Eir explained. “And in any case, this sample is decades old, My Lady. He was ill _then_ , if you recall.”

She did remember. Thor was so unused to sickness that the slightest sniffle prompted a great deal of moaning and complaining. But after a few days of bedrest and hot stew, Thor had been running outside again, the incident entirely forgotten.

“But that was a simple case of goat pox,” said Frigga—a common childhood illness, so called because it had first affected Asgardian livestock. “That is not usually life-threatening in—”

“In _Asgardian_ children,” Eir emphasized.

“Ah.”

“I cannot say for certain if Jotun children are more susceptible, or if Loki’s immune system is simply compromised from long-term stress and poor nutrition. Some combination of both, I would suspect.”

“Do you believe that you can cure it? Now that you’ve identified the illness?” Frigga’s pulse thudded in her ears, but she kept her breaths slow and even, trying to suppress her emotions. There was too much work to be done.

“If Prince Thor is willing to help his young friend, then yes. I’d say there is a chance.”

 

Thor answered the summons dutifully, though his brow was wrinkled in confusion as he was ushered inside—after all, his mother had only just sent him away. He kept standing on tiptoes to steal a glimpse of Loki on the bed, but Frigga took hold of his shoulders so that he would be still as Eir explained the situation to him.

“ _I_ made Loki sick?” Thor repeated after Eir, looking from the healer to his mother in horror.

“It was not your fault, dear heart,” Frigga quickly clarified, “but we believe you may be able to help Loki be well again, if you are brave enough.”

Thor’s eyes brightened: she had chosen the words she knew he longed to hear. He puffed out his chest and proclaimed, “I can be brave, Mother. What must I do?”

“I need a blood sample from you, Prince Thor,” said Eir. “A few drops will do. I must isolate the antibodies and develop an antidote from them.”

Frigga appreciated that Eir did not talk down to her son, but she could see the confusion on his face, so she elucidated in as simple terms as she could. “Sometimes, when our bodies learn to fight off a particular illness, they remember exactly how to do it, so we don’t catch the same infection again. You have already fought off this infection years ago, so your blood will help Loki to do the same. Do you understand?”

“My blood has the cure?” He tilted his head to the side, puzzled.

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Mother,” said the boy solemnly, as if preparing to march into battle. “It would be an honor to shed blood in the service of a friend.”

Eir’s lips twitched at Thor’s melodramatic response. Though Frigga felt his arm tremble in anticipation as she held it still and Eir disinfected the skin at his elbow, he barely flinched at the prick of the needle. Frigga ruffled his hair proudly and murmured, “Well done.”

“And now you can make Loki well again?”

The women exchanged glances. Eir had given Frigga no guarantees, for there was not absolute certainty in medicine, nor any other branch of magic.

“It is highly probable,” said Eir in her official manner, and that seemed to reassure him. Frigga knew that it would not be a simple task, but at least they were no longer fumbling in the dark. There was hope.

 

 

Sometimes Loki’s nightmares were not dreams at all.

Sometimes he was in Jotunheim again—he knew from the howling of the wind outside the cavernous hall, and the eerie blue light of the flames dancing in the grate. But he could not feel the biting cold.

In fact, he seemed to be standing outside of himself, watching the scene from a safe distance. As if that cowering, cringing little figure was not himself.

As if that towering, menacing figure was not his father.

_How many times must I tell you to stay out of here?_ The giant roared, but Loki the observer did not flinch like the memory-Loki did. It didn’t feel real.

_How dare you show your face, today of all days? You wretched little demon. You were born a killer. You’re nothing but a curse to this family._

The memory-Loki’s pleas were cut off with a choke when Laufey’s gigantic hand closed around his throat.  
  
The scene started to blur at the edges. The gasping creature was kicking and struggling against the giant’s grip—but Loki’s vision went black before he could learn what happened next.

In the darkness, Loki’s head was swimming with voices arguing, though they all sounded like his own—sometimes icy with disdain, sometimes broken and frantic.

_(It didn’t happen. It didn’t happen!)_

_Yes it did. You can lie to yourself all you want, you can try to forget it like the coward you are. But Father tried to kill you._

_(He said he was sorry—that it was a mistake.)_

_You believed that? You’re terribly naïve._

_(He just lost control of his temper. He said it would not have happened if I were a son he could be proud of. If I hadn’t caused Mother to die of shame. It was my fault.)_

_He’s only letting you live until there is a better replacement. Once the baby is born…your days are numbered._

_(Shut up, shut up!)_

_No one will even miss you…_

_(You’re wrong. I…I have listened to you enough already. I have a friend here in Asgard, a real friend. And a…)_

_Not a mother, surely?_

_(I didn’t say that.)_

_She is not yours, Loki. She does not love you, she simply feels sorry for you. Is that what you want? To be seen as pathetic? The Asgardians think of our kind as monsters. The queen is no different. She tends to you as to a wounded animal—you are nothing more than a pet to them, a stray they have taken in because you amuse them and pose no immediate threat—_

_(Shut up, shut up, I will not listen to you anymore.)_

_And why should she care for you? You are ill-formed for both worlds—not a proper Jotun, certainly not Æsir. You belong nowhere. You are nothing._

_(Shut up, you are wrong, you are a LIAR.)_

 

Suddenly, Loki was jerked out of his nightmare into a place between sleeping and waking. He could dimly see the room before him, though the two figures at his bedside were shadowy and indistinct. Though he tried to sit up, or to call out to them, he found he could not move a muscle. But he caught snatches of a conversation.

“—cannot send him back there, and you know it,” one of the silhouettes said.

“Certainly not,” agreed the other. It was a man’s grim voice, which confused Loki.

Unable to keep his eyes open longer, or try to make sense of the conversation, he succumbed again to the heaviness of his limbs, though for some reason this time, the darkness was less like a cold cavern and more like a warm blanket.

Before unconsciousness settled over him, he made one final, shameful admission to himself.

_If only…if only I had been born in Asgard._

_Traitor._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the last section was kind of weird, so a little explanation might be in order. 
> 
> Loki doesn't have a split personality, but there is definitely something "fractured" about his identity--the part of him that's been forced to grow up fast to deal with his troubled home life, and the part that's still just a vulnerable little kid. I imagine those parts of him are at odds when confronted with this repressed memory. I hope that wasn't too confusing or unclear, but if you still have questions, I will do my best to answer them.


	16. Chapter Sixteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to my tumblr friend Leda (aka iamhisgloriouspurpose) for giving me some helpful advice on how to divide this chapter and the next.

When Loki opened his eyes a fraction, the light almost blinded him. He blinked a few times, trying to get his bearings. His limbs felt heavy as lead, and the faint sounds around him seemed muffled, as if his ears were stuffed with cotton.

He swallowed and tried to sit up and look around himself—but a gentle hand kept him from rising.

“Not so fast, young man,” said a soft voice. Underneath the evident fondness, there was something else in her tone—relief, perhaps? “You’ve been very ill. Take it slowly.”

“My Lady?” he croaked.

She appeared in his field of vision, and his stomach twisted with guilt at the sight of the dark circles under her eyes. Her smile, however, was radiant.

“How are you feeling, dear one?”

He propped himself up on his elbows, slowly so as to not alarm her. “Better. How long have I been sick? I don’t remember…”

“Almost a week. You had quite a fever there, and I…” She pressed her lips together and shook her head before forcing a smile. “You had me quite worried there, Loki.”

When he opened his mouth to apologize for causing her anxiety, she shushed him sternly. He couldn’t understand how she could look so damned _pleased_ to see him, how she could tuck the covers around him, beaming as if he had done something wonderful, when he’d been nothing but trouble for her.

The softened sunlight coming from cracks between the curtains, and the quiet serenity of the scene, was such a stark contrast to Loki’s nightmares that his head spun. With Frigga guarding his bedside like this, it was difficult to believe that any of that was real—as if her kindness could banish the darkness.

Unfortunately, Loki knew that was just an illusion. The darkness could creep back in as soon as Frigga left.

“You’re going to be just fine, Eir says. I don’t know what Asgard would do without her.”

Appearing in Loki’s line of vision, Eir scoffed. “Probably all succumb to simple childhood diseases and foolish injuries, that’s what.” Turning to the prince, she informed him, “I’m going to take your temperature now, so remain still please.”

Loki tensed, but was motionless. She wore thick gloves while checking his vitals, he noticed, and it seemed to protect her from the chill of his skin. The healer straightened up with a satisfied nod.

“Please get some rest, Eir,” Frigga murmured. “You’ve done more than enough.”

“As you wish, My Lady.” It did not escape Loki’s notice that she raised her eyebrows pointedly at Frigga, as if to chide her for hypocrisy.

“Was someone else here earlier?” he wondered aloud. “I thought I heard you talking with a man…” Loki shook his head. It had probably just been a part of one of his dreams.

But Frigga said, “Yes, the All-Father was here last night.”

“Is he still in Asgard?”

“Yes, he came back to—”

Loki sat bolt upright in bed, electrified with purpose. “My Lady, may I please speak to him?” When Frigga looked puzzled, he added, “I know he must be very busy. I would not ask if it wasn’t very important. _Please_.”

Startled by the request, and Loki’s sudden urgency, Frigga said slowly, “I will do what I can. He may be holed up in his war council for a few hours, but I will inform him that you wish to speak with him.” Frowning slightly, she added, “Is it something you could tell me, Loki?”

He licked his lips, torn. “Forgive me, My Lady. It is something for the king’s ears alone.”

She did not seem offended, to his relief, but she did still seem confused. “Very well, Loki. I will—where do you think you are going?”

For he had started hoisted himself out of bed. “To talk—”

“No you don’t. I will bring him here, Loki. You still need rest.” Her tone did not allow for argument, though her lips twitched.

“Yes, My Lady,” he grumbled.

Her smirk became more pronounced. “You’re as bad as Thor,” she remarked under her breath, but it didn’t sound like an insult. For some reason, Loki felt butterflies in his stomach, being casually grouped alongside Thor in her mind.

Frigga allowed herself one last backward look before exiting, as if assuring herself that Loki was, in fact, remaining in bed.

“I’m afraid you will have to take this twice a day, for at least a week,” said Eir conversationally. She was grinding some herbs with a mortar and pestle on his nightstand. “It isn’t going to taste very good, I’m afraid, but it’s necessary. I could add a spoonful of honey, if that makes it easier for you.”

Loki suppressed a grin—he imagined her suggestion was from years of experience dealing with a finicky Thor. “That won’t be necessary, Lady Eir.”

As she carefully measured out a dose of potion for him, he felt bold enough to ask, “Lady Eir? Is it…is it possible to _make_ yourself forget something? Something you do not want to remember?”

Her eyes flicked briefly to his face and back to the draught she was pouring. “I believe it is possible, yes. Our minds do a great number of strange things with the aim of protecting us. I do not, however, believe it is _advisable_ to run away from our troubles. They have a strange way of catching up to us eventually.” She handed him the glass and scrutinized him. “Why do you ask?”

He gulped down the vile concoction with a shudder and smiled innocently. “I was only curious.”

He knew he had not fooled her, for she raised an eyebrow skeptically as she packed away her instruments, but she did not press the matter. Loki wondered how much she knew, or guessed—had he talked in his sleep, revealed his shameful secrets in his feverish state?

But now that his sickness had dredged up those memories, had forced him to confront the ugly reality that he wished he did not know, the burden of keeping it a secret was an unbearable weight. He thought his heart might be crushed under this fear and uncertainty. Only here, in the bright sunlight of this room, wrapped in warmth and guarded by Frigga, was he safe. He felt so far removed from home that maybe, just maybe, Laufey could not reach him here.

“I shall return in the evening to administer another dose,” said the healer briskly. “Until then, you are not to exert yourself. And stick to simple broth for now, anything more substantial may upset your stomach. Am I clear?”

Loki nodded, eyes round and earnest. Satisfied, Eir turned to leave, but he timidly called after her, “Th—thank you, Lady Eir.”

She seemed taken aback—but couldn’t she understand that no one had ever invested this much time and effort toward his wellbeing? That, back home, there are many who would simply let Jotunheim take him back, and say it was for the best?

“Of course, Prince Loki.”

When Eir left him alone, Loki all but ran for the bath, though his legs were shaky from disuse. Frigga had said Odin might be occupied in meetings for a while, so this gave Loki some time to make himself presentable for the king.

 If he was to be taken seriously, he would have to conduct himself in as mature and reasonable a manner as possible, he thought as he frantically scrubbed himself clean. He couldn’t let himself seem overcome with emotion, for he doubted that would move the stoic All-Father, and it might make Odin disgusted with him.

As he combed his damp hair away from his face, Loki struggled to breathe evenly.

_You cannot let him see your fear. He must respect you as a prince of an enemy realm, as a possible ally. If you are a sniveling coward he won’t believe a word you say…_

 His hands shook as he rolled up the sleeves of Thor’s old red tunic that he had to wear. Intending to obey Eir’s injunction to rest, he returned to the bed and tried flipping through a library book.

His heart jumped into his throat when the door burst open—but it was not Odin.

“You’re awake!” Thor hopped onto the bed beside Loki, bobbing up and down in excitement. “I thought you’d _never_ wake.”

“So did I,” said Loki wryly, stretching. His voice was still hoarse from sickness and drowsiness, so he reached for the pitcher of water on his nightstand.

Thor, who was sitting closer to it, poured him a cup of water and watched him with a gleeful smile, as if proud of his skills at nursing him back to health.

“Did Mother tell you?”

Loki raised an eyebrow. “Tell me what?”

“ _I_ was the one that cured you,” said Thor smugly. “The antidote was in my blood, so they gave some to you, and now you are well!”

“Oh.” Loki’s head spun with this information. He surreptitiously studied the vein in his arm, as if he would be able to tell the difference—he did not feel any different, aside from slight weakness from being recently ill. But a corner of his mind wondered, foolishly, if having some of Thor’s blood made him any less Jotun. If it made him a little bit Æsir.

But Thor was prattling happily away. “We are almost like blood brothers, Loki!”

Loki frowned, disconcerted. “What are you talking about? We are not—”

“Oh, I suppose you do not have these in Jotunheim. But they’re in _all_ the sagas.”

He scooched closer, eyes shining with excitement, but Loki squirmed away nervously, afraid Thor might accidentally touch him.

Thor explained, “Usually the hero of the story has a companion they love above all else, and they make a pact to be friends forever—a promise that cannot be broken until death.”

Loki snickered. “And you see yourself as the hero of a saga, don’t you?” he teased. But his mind was racing, tripping over itself as he tried not to hope.

Thor laughed good-naturedly with him. “Well, why not? And you can be my loyal companion, and we can go slay dragons and rescue fair maidens, and stories will be told of us!”

The boys dissolved into giggles at this odd image—a little Æsir boy whose boasting did not match his strength, and a miniature Frost Giant, marching off into the wilderness to face monsters together. Yet the fantasy made Loki giddy.

As their mirth died, his eyes began to sting with another emotion. What was going to happen to them? Even if he managed to survive in Jotunheim, even if he was allowed to grow up, what then? He and Thor were the heirs to a legacy of hatred and conflict. Would they have to fight when they were grown?

Loki pulled his knees up to his chin and confessed in a small voice, “I don’t want to go back to Jotunheim, Thor.”

 Thor sighed, a dark cloud of gloom settling over him. “I don’t want you to go, either.”

They sat in melancholy silence, studying the pattern stitched into Loki’s comforter.

“ _I_ know!” Thor clapped his hands, making Loki jump. “It’s obvious, isn’t it? _Blood brothers_.”

“You’re not making sense.”

“If we swear the oath to each other, we have to stay by each other’s sides. So my father _cannot_ send you away, or else I would have to go with you!”

Loki narrowed his eyes, skeptical. “Are you certain that’s how it works?”

“Of course,” Thor said with a shrug. “All promises are sacred, but blood oaths most of all. Even my father cannot undo them.”

Loki chewed on his lower lip, thinking. He still felt there was little that could be done to defy the All-Father, should the king of Asgard decide to cast him out, and he did not trust that Odin’s sense of honor was as simplistic and inflexible as his son’s.

Yet the hopeful, eager look in Thor’s eyes made Loki slowly relax, and quieted all the cynical doubts in his mind. He found himself blurting out, “What must we do?”

Thor searched the room for a moment. Frigga had left sewing supplies on the chair beside the bed—keeping her hands busy as she watched over Loki—and so Thor snatched up a pair of scissors. Then he took Loki’s cup and filled it with water again, saying sheepishly, “It’s supposed to be wine, but this will work.”

“Have you done this before?” Loki asked.

“No,” Thor admitted, “but I’ve listened to enough ballads.”

Before Loki could stop him, Thor pressed his thumb against the blade of the scissors until he broke the skin. He winced in pain, but held his bleeding thumb over the cup so that a few red drops fell inside.

“Your turn,” Thor said, handing him the scissors. “Don’t cut too deep. Just a couple of drops.”

Loki balked. He was not afraid of a little pain—he had been through far worse already, had he not? Certainly more than the spoiled prince of Asgard, so if he can do it…

He swiped the blade across his finger, and the water in the cup turned a deeper scarlet. It was strange, Loki mused, that they bled the same color despite how different their flesh was.

Thor’s face was solemn as they held the cup between them. “Now we have to make the oath. I, Thor, son of Odin, hereby claim you as my blood brother. Your enemies are my enemies, and my friends are your friends. I will guard your back in battle, and avenge you if you fall. Let no force in Yggdrasil break this bond.”

He sounded as if he were reciting something from memory, though he stumbled a few times. At his encouragement, Loki repeated the oath in a shaky voice, occasionally needing prompting when he forgot a phrase.

“And now we have to drink,” said Thor. “May the Norns witness our vow.”

He made a face after taking a sip, but took another without hesitating.

Loki took the cup and brought it to his lips, never taking his eyes from Thor’s.

After a lifetime of rejection, the possibility that someone might _choose_ to be his family was inconceivable. But here they were, binding their fates together.

 _If this is just another fever dream, I don’t want to wake up_ , Loki thought, before taking a drink. The metallic taste of the blood made him shudder.

A knock at the door jerked them both from the quiet ceremony.

“Loki? Please unlock the door. You wished to speak with me, did you not?”

The boys looked guiltily at each other upon hearing Odin’s voice from the hall. Loki hastily set the cup on his nightstand, hoping the adults would not notice the pinkish tinge in his water.

Then Thor’s hand was on his shoulder, and he whispered, “Everything is going to be alright. You’ll see— _brother_.”

And for a moment, lost in the warmth and conviction of his new brother’s voice, Loki believed him.


End file.
